


Hunter's Bane

by sifshadowheart



Category: Teen Wolf (TV), The Shadowhunter Chronicles - All Media Types
Genre: Advent 2019, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Amoral Stiles, Arranged Marriage, Bisexuality, Demonic Shenanigans, Discrimination Against Downworlders, Downworld Council (Shadowhunter Chronicles), Downworlder Politics, Everyone Hates Valentine, Fluff and Humor, Implied Mpreg, M/M, Multi, Political Alliances, Political Expediency, Political Marriage, Protective Alec Lightwood, Protective Magnus Bane, Protective Stiles Stilinski, Sass Master Triad, Slash, The Clave (Shadowhunter Chronicles), Threesome, Warlock Stiles, dash of angst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-01
Updated: 2019-12-21
Packaged: 2021-02-13 15:40:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 21
Words: 101,873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21496663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sifshadowheart/pseuds/sifshadowheart
Summary: All Stiles wanted was to enjoy a drink at Pandemonium with his best friend and maybe end the night with a pretty human - or maybe a werewolf, it'd been a minute - to celebrate the end of his college career.  Instead he got Clary Fray suddenly manifesting Sight, Shadowhunters all over the place, and the Circle popping back up like the dimension's least-likable jack-in-the-box.  He'd hidden from the others of his kind all his life with the exception of his mentor and he had zero intention of getting sucked into Shadow World, Downworld, or the Inter-Realm, Multidimensional politics that was anything to do with demons, nephilim, and the Fae.Too bad fate had other plans, including a warlock who wore glitter like he was born with it and a shadowhunter who shouldnothave a smile that sweet and shy.If he didn't know better, he'd think Ragnor cursed him after their last argument over Stiles's habit of locking away his heart, but he did know better.Even Ragnor Fell couldn't have planned for how swiftly Stiles's world could implode and all because one girl didn't have the sense to look the other way when Shadowhunters and demons were roaming the night.
Relationships: Alec Lightwood/Magnus Bane/Stiles Stilinski, Derek Hale & Stiles Stilinski, Magnus Bane/Alec Lightwood, Minor or Background Relationship(s), Ragnor Fell & Stiles Stilinski, Raphael Santiago/Derek Hale
Comments: 390
Kudos: 1055
Collections: Amazing and Bizarre Crossovers, Teen Wolf XOvers





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Author’s Note: This is obviously going to be very much an alternate universe sort of story. There’s Stiles being badass. There’s use of background characters that are characters pulled from another fandom altogether. There's minor/background original characters. There’s MPreg made possible via demonic shenanigans. It’s a lot and it’s all because my brain and muse are all about the shiny and always want to play with the shiny and there’s not much out there that’s more shiny than Malec so I just had to put my own spin on things when I could only find a single, solitary TW crossover that I liked and none with a pairing that I wanted.
> 
> Normally I would slap up warnings but just review the tags in this case. There’s a lot going on here and I’ve mashed a lot of things together and disregarded canon and yeah. Tags.
> 
> This starts out with the normal – if altered – intro from S1E1 of Shadowhunters but you will quickly see what I mean about disregarding canon.
> 
> The main pairing for this fic is a threesome of Magnus/Alec/Stiles, and I honestly can’t stand Clary so be aware of that and I’m putting Jace with someone else entirely.
> 
> Still with me?
> 
> Awesome!
> 
> Enjoy!
> 
> ~Sif

** Hunter’s Bane **

** _A Teen Wolf/Shadowhunters Crossover_ **

_By Sif Shadowheart_

**Chapter One: Not So Mundane After All**

“Oh, what the _fuck_?” Derek Hale, twenty-two-year-old college student in his final year of pre-Law at Columbia and wolf shifter of the Hale Pack of Beacon Hills, groaned as he caught sight of the absolute _last_ thing he wanted to see in the Shadow World club of Pandemonium. 

As a place where everyone and anyone could mix and mingle from mundanes to Downworlders to Shadowhunters to those who dwelt in and between those theoretical – but still very _real_ and present – lines, he could imagine quite a few things going on in the club. But on a night out to relax after his latest battery of finals before his _final_ final the next week with his best friend and boyfriend, it was safe to say that he wasn’t _excited_ to see his sponsor to the New York Pack – werewolves, not shifters – step-daughter linking arms with a damn _demon_ and waltzing back into a semi-private area of the club.

Not least because she was mundane but also that she was literally only just turned eighteen if he remembered Luke’s rants about Clary Fray growing up and turning into a legal adult.

His boyfriend, a vampire from the Dumort Clan named Raphael who he’d met in this very club last year, both of them keeping their relationship very much a secret except from their closest friends or companions who they could trust not to out them to their various authority figures who weren’t likely to approve of their particular brand of cross-species _diplomacy_, leaned down in concern at his curse.

Luke was great, his pack…not so much. But a wolf was a wolf. Derek needed somewhere to run and someone to run with more often than his quarterly trips home so he had to deal with a flavor of prejudice that hadn’t managed to take hold in little Beacon Hills.

Mainly because the warlock who once claimed protection over the town and the surrounding forestlands was more likely to fry someone for it than look the other way but that was a whole ‘nother subject, even before most of those responsibilities had been turned over to Derek’s older brother Darius several years before when Sheriff Stilinski retired and Stiles wasn’t bound as firmly to keep watch over the town any longer.

“What is it, love?” Raphael asked, even as Derek leaned over in turn and tapped his best friend Stiles lightly on the arm and pointed out the issue.

Stiles was his best friend for a reason and a lot of them have to do with his kind heart and accepting nature that never looked down on him despite the very real difference in their ages – even if Derek didn’t know about that part until he was old enough to keep the secret about Stiles’s heritage and the burden of years that came along with it.

The rest of it was that he was a mixture of smarts, snark, and sass wrapped in ivory skin and a pretty face that fooled more than one person over the years since they became friends, getting them both in and out of trouble, the pair of them under the teachings of his mentor able to sum up a situation in an instant and that was before Stiles’s own experiences came into play.

And Clary had _clearly_ stumbled face first into some capital-T _Trouble_ as, if the demon wasn’t enough the trio of Shadowhunters easy for anyone with a bit of Sight to spot thanks to their angelic runes they tended to plaster all over themselves, were that extra spice in the stew to make things _really_ fun.

“Oh, what the _fuck_?” Stiles complained, deadly pout already forming. He may have forever – literally – to find time to relax but Derek didn’t. Enjoying time with the few people he allowed inside his formidable defenses was one of the only upsides to life as an immortal warlock. Aside from the whole magic thing anyway. And the wealth that naturally followed with time to build a portfolio. Watching those he cared for die over and over and over again on the other hand was the rather massive downside. Noah was the last of his mortal relations and he _was not_ looking forward to that day when it inevitably came as it always did. And he may have been a bit…_manic_ over the years as a result regarding the former-sheriff’s health and safety, at times to hilarious or heartbreaking results. “Seriously? Our _one_ free night in the middle of finals hell and she finds trouble?”

“At least it’s not bullies or muggers this time.” Derek decided philosophically. “The Shadowhunters will take care of it.”

The low snarl that Stiles made wasn’t nearly so forgiving, his whiskey-amber-brown eyes flashing gold for a split second certain to be waved off in a mixed club like Pandemonium as the very aura of the place encouraged mundanes to be even _more_ oblivious than they were already to what went bump in the night.

“Go get your car.” He all-but-ordered, Derek sighing and kissing Raphael goodbye with apologies written all over his face but when Stiles got that tone it was better to go with the flow and save the argument. It wouldn’t do any good anyway. “I’ll go rescue Cinderella before the Nephilim turn her into a pumpkin.” 

He grumbled over it, tossing back his last remaining tequila shot before wandering over in his limited-edition Iron Man converse hi-tips to put himself in a strategic position to nab Clary when she inevitably bolted or the Shadowhunters muscled her out of the private “room” hidden behind drapes in the club.

Times like this he wouldn’t mind using a bit of magic or a rune to remain unseen until he _wanted_ to be unseen but keeping a low profile was the name of the game when playing mundane and out of Shadow World politics so he’d abstain – for the moment – as he’d been doing save for in the warded apartment he shared with Derek.

Warlocks and magic had a relationship not unlike human bodies and blood and one just as necessary to survive. Though in the case of magic, they didn’t have a system for filtering it or preventing too much build up like blood did. No, Warlocks had to handle all of that themselves, and the most powerful were known to be show-offs often for that reason: they _had_ to use their magic, sometimes on a near-constant basis, if they didn’t want it to overflow and cause massive harm to themselves or others.

And the less said about tainted magics and cleansing rituals the better.

Been there, done that, wished a t-shirt was all he’d gotten.

Maybe classic blood-red with black writing that said: _Demonic Shenanigans: Ruining Warlock Lives Since Creation._

Stiles scanned over the crowd, clocking the mundane girl’s friends over at the bar as well as a warlock who he’d do well to avoid. 

Most warlocks weren’t anything so simple to dismiss as bad or evil despite their demonic roots, he knew that better than anyone. Even so, many of them could be opportunistic or prone to cause chaos if bored and he’d rather not borrow additional trouble. The warlock community tended to be close-knit, which was a positive. It _also_ tended to play power games among its own as well as the rest of the Shadow World and it was only _where_ he’d been born and grown and lived out most of his years so far that he’d stayed off the radar until he got good enough at controlling his power to keep his head down away from Beacon Hills, and he had no intention of ruining all of that work because of an idiotic teenager.

Almost on cue Clary came bolting out from the drapes, every inch of her _screaming_ that she’d seen too much and her brain was on the verge of exploding – poor little mundane baby – looked like the Shadowhunters weren’t playing around at the moment, one of them even staring after the copper-haired girl as she ran through the club, blind to her path and shouldering into the warlock Stiles wanted to avoid.

And _oh_ he didn’t like the look on Mr. Too-Handsome’s face at _all_. Say what some like about warlocks, _that_ one either had a dab hand with glamors or his parentage was exceptional in the looks department. Not all of their kind were so lucky, though Stiles hadn’t done poorly on that score himself.

Before the girl could good totally good on her escape, Stiles darted forward while she was discombobulated from running into the warlock – and whatever about _him_ that had freaked her out when nothing should’ve since his warlock’s _Mark_ was hidden even to someone like Stiles who was looking and had power to back up his Sight – swinging his arm around the girl’s thin shoulders and steering her firmly out of the club even as Clary started in surprise and started to babble, leaving the girl’s friends calling out to her behind them.

“Stiles? What-? What’s going on?” Clary babbled, completely freaked out and just _done_ over what _had_ to be a hallucination.

She swore she was losing her mind.

Especially since she’d seen the guy dozens of times since Stiles and Derek had come to New York for school and the latter had been kinda-sorta taken under her stepdad’s wing, and she’d _never_ known that Stiles had tattoos.

Especially not ones that were in that same odd script she’d been seeing all over the place and drawing absently in margins and inside other drawings that _glowed silver_ on his neck.

If he had others, she couldn’t tell as even though Pandemonium was a dance club and Stiles was clearly sweating from the heat of all the bodies, his tight red knit shirt covered him from the base of his neck to his wrists though – she frowned even more confused – she thought there might be another tattoo or two peeking out from inside his sleeves on the back of one or both hands.

“I don’t know.” Stiles told her firmly even as he picked up the pace as he clocked additional trouble once they cleared the club – and not _just_ from tall-blond-and-built with the Shadowhunters. “Here’s Derek,” she sighed in relief at the sight of the black Camaro. “C’mon, let’s get you home. You might’ve been slipped something if you’re this freaked out and your mom will probably want to take care of you.”

While Stiles was manhandling Clary into the backseat of Derek’s car, he traded a _look_ with the shifter.

They needed to get Clary to Jocelyn.

And if the looks the girl was casting at Stiles’s neck and hands were any sign, that conversation was going to be _anything_ but simple.

Seeing through a glamor was one thing, any mundane with a bit of the Sight could manage that.

Seeing through a glamor like the one on Stiles’s Runes that was supposed to hide them from _all_ sight was a different thing entirely.

One thing Stiles was certain of, however: whatever the reason behind both Clary’s ignorance and sudden appearance of having Shadow World gifts was, he was going to be _pissed_ if it ended up putting him or Derek in danger.

…

“What just happened?” Isabella Lightwood, brunette bombshell and daughter of a Shadowhunter legacy stretching back to the first Nephilim charged with hunting demons and protecting the world from their depredations, came to stand beside her brother Alec as they watched their adoptive brother Jace stand and stare at the closed drapes were a moment before the little ginger girl had disappeared.

Alec – an equally brunet and bombshell, if older, version of her own magnificent self in her _not at all_ biased opinion – frowned.

What was supposed to be a simple hunt, catch, interrogate, kill mission was left in ichor and demon dust on the ground and it was all because of that annoying little mundane girl who saw through their Runes for some damn reason and had not a _fucking drop_ of sense to go with it.

“She used a seraph blade,” Jace said, confused down to his bones, turning and meeting their own confused – and irritated in the case of Alec – looks with his own. “She saw through the Runes outside the club, must’ve followed us trying to figure out why no one else could see us instead of brushing it off. And she used a seraph blade…guys…” He shook his head, baffled. “Then met up with someone else with silver runes on his neck.”

“What runes?” Alec focused on the pertinent question. A mundane girl with Nephilim blood wasn’t exactly earth-shattering. It happened and wielding the blades was the lesser of their powers. Now if she could bear having Runes applied _that_ might be something as sometimes even members of the oldest Nephilim families couldn’t tolerate having Runes applied for one reason or another. Hence his question. “Could you make them out?”

“Not from all the way across the club.” Jace pursed his lips, trading seraph blades with his brother and _parabatai_ the two of them having tossed and traded more than usual in the last fight due to the issue of having the mundane girl trying to “save” demons before accidently killing one. _Mundanes_. So weird. “It looked like the same Rune on each side, maybe another behind one of his ears but it might’ve been the lights in the club messing with me. Both silver and there was something on the back of his neck too but I couldn’t make out what shape or even color.”

“Silver, okay.” Alec blew out a breath as he shouldered his bow again having had to drop it in the close quarters combat required in the club as the trio started making their way back out of the packed club, all of the mundanes no wiser to the fight that’d just happened and none of the Downworlders wanting to mix with Shadowhunters on the hunt. “That means mental properties,” his brow furrowed in thought. “There’s not that many of those, actually.”

Not in common use anyway. With literally thousands of angelic runes given from their creator Raziel to use in the fight against demons and protect the mortal world, there were always dozens or hundreds of runes with similar properties. The majority of them worked on the physical body with a relative fraction in comparison geared towards the heart, mind, or soul. It was how they were used and what they were used _for_ that made the difference between ones in common use for Shadowhunters and ones that were more esoteric used and studied by their scholars in addition to those only granted to use for the Silent Brothers or the Iron Sisters, sects of the Nephilim devoted to monastic lives lived in service to their cause.

“Either way,” Jace shrugged, not all that interested in that. The details and book-knowledge and ancient history stuff was Alec’s department as the future head of an Institute even if not _their_ Institute depending on Clave politics. Jace liked the physical: point him at a target and let him go making him an excellent Point and someday, maybe, Head of Security. “Permission to track them, Acting Institute Head Lightwood?” He teased lightly over his older brother’s position.

Alec snorted, rolling his eyes. As if Jace wouldn’t do it anyway even if he said no. Thankfully in this case since they were back to the drawing board when it came to demons dipping into peddling mundane blood – and _not_ to Night Children which actually would’ve made some sense – he might as well send his best man out to figure out what was going on with the random unrecognized Shadowhunter and his little mundane friend.

“Knock yourself out.” Alec waved him off. “But,” he warned as Jace punched the air like his was twelve not twenty-four. “Keep in contact and try not to do anything that will add to the pile of paperwork I’m going to have to do after all of, _that_,” he waved vaguely behind him at the club.

“You got it, boss.” Jace gave him a mock-salute before loping off, using his Runes to hit the rooftops before trying to track the mundie and her friend. “Izzy, will you see if you can figure out how they left or what direction? I’ll scout the area, but they might’ve gotten a cab or something.”

“Will do,” Izzy blew her fun brother a kiss. “Have fun with your cold rooftops, Jace.”

“Haha. Enjoy your paperwork.”

Alec shared a look with his sister, though granted per their personalities his was darkly sardonic and hers teasingly playful.

“An hour of ichor duty says that he comes back only _after_ creating a whole new problem.” Izzy offered with a cheeky grin as she tucked her arm through the crook of her big brother’s elbow, free hand already typing away swiftly on her smartphone connected to the Institute’s computer system for that information _both_ of her brothers wanted if for vastly different reasons.

Though she was relatively certain that Jace at least wasn’t after jailbait – the _other_ Shadowhunter with the silver runes on the other hand might be a different story entirely.

Jace played the shallow womanizer better than most people she knew but when it came down to it most shadowhunters – the active, front-line fighters anyway – had an appreciation for beauty wherever they found it.

Life was too fleeting to be otherwise.

Now what the Clave and their families _knew_ about and approved of was a much different – and repressed – story.

“No deal,” Alec said, withholding a put-upon sigh. There went his easy night of “Mission Complete” reporting followed by cruising for a little stress relief – possibly even at Pandemonium – in favor of cleaning up that little mundane’s mess. “An hour’s ichor duty that he comes back after making a new problem _and_ causing property damage in the process that the Institute will have to cover up.”

Izzy tossed her head back and laughed. Alec might still be a hard ass, especially about Covenant Law, but ever since he got over his little teenage crush on Jace he’d become a _lot_ more fun. The wonders of regular – if mostly anonymous – sex at work.

People liked to gossip about her and Jace. About how they were always getting into trouble and relying on big brother to bail them out. What they didn’t realize – not one of those stuck-up Clave bitches who constantly pant after Alec – was that her big brother was a _massively_ subversive asshole.

Izzy broke rules for the fun of it, Jace never paid any attention to them in the first place.

Alec?

Alec knew every last law and rule and guideline. He knew _exactly_ what both the Covenant and Accords said and what the Clave actually followed regarding them. And he knew _exactly_ how to toe the line of the actual Law while flipping the bird to the mere “rules,” either spoken or unspoken, in _exactly_ the right way to keep from getting sanctioned or at worst brought before the Council.

Every law to the letter.

As their people liked to say: the law is hard but it is the law.

Everything else?

Might as well not exist as far as Alexander Lightwood was concerned.

Izzy was never quite certain if she should be proud of him for that or deeply concerned.

She wasn’t a fool.

She knew one day that mere compliance to the _letter_ of the law wasn’t going to be enough. There was going to come a situation where he was expected to follow the spirit of it as well. To be the good little Lightwood soldier. And unfortunately, unlike herself or Jace whose rebellions were perfectly predictable, when that day comes she doesn’t think even Alec would be able to foresee what he’ll do – or what the consequences might be.

…

Mourning the turn the night had taken, albeit for different reasons – Derek might have a cuddly vamp to go home to but Stiles’s life had been empty of that sort of affection since they left Beacon Hills for college (for real this time on Stiles’s part instead of just disappearing to his bolt-hole in San Francisco for a couple of years) – they dropped Clary off at her home not _about_ to stick around for those fireworks between Jocelyn (who was something even if neither of them was sure _what_) and her daughter who’s Sight seemed to have kicked in with becoming an adult.

Stiles needed answers but he needed _not_ to be in between a pair of protective, pissed off, confused, and otherwise volatile redheads _even more_.

He’d wait and bother them over Clary’s little lack-of-Sight spell later.

Impressive spellwork from what Stiles knew about that sort of suppression. Most gifts manifested during childhood whether slowly or with a bang. Keeping one locked away until whatever passed for adulthood in a given community wasn’t easy – and warlocks being warlocks neither would it have been _cheap_.

But that, thankfully, was _not_ either Stiles’s monkey to wrangle nor circus to run.

New York wasn’t his territory. After turning over guardianship of the Nemeton in Beacon Hills to Derek’s brother, a human born to a wolf shifter pack with a knack for the magical arts albeit druidic rather than demonic, he didn’t _have_ territory anymore – technically – though Beacon Hills would always be his home. It wasn’t his problem.

Still…

Despite the lack of dancing and drinks, the night for Derek at least it appeared could be recovered as they arrived at their loft near campus to the sight of an unbuttoned-but-still-dressed Raphael waiting to welcome Derek home.

Stiles rolled his eyes in amusement and switched out his clubbing outfit with a finger snap and flare of magic for boots, jeans, and the appearance of a hoodie all in varying shades of black to grey then waved goodbye on his way back out the door, another snap of his fingers having his arsenal and a double-down on his glamor in place. 

One could never be _too_ careful after all and demons were roaming a _bit_ too freely lately for Stiles to want to take unnecessary risks. 

Vacating the loft might not be the smart thing to do but it _was _the thing to do. With how stressed Derek had been over them finishing their BA’s and Derek getting into law school, he _needed_ some alone time with his fanged honey. Besides – Stiles’s curiosity had been pricked.

Between the exsanguinations that had New York up in arms – seven or eight now, he’d lost track and tabloids had never been the most reliable – and this drama with Clary, there was something _more_ going on, something he was missing just under the surface.

And if there was something he had _definitely_ inherited from dear-old-dad, it was an utter inability to just let things _be_.

…

A quick – and quiet – portal let him out just on the border of the convergence point that Jocelyn Fray had set up her auction house and apartment over. Which was _very_ clever of her. Convergence points weren’t common though neither were they particularly rare even if truly powerful ones were perhaps numbered in the high nineties or a hundred across the globe – like the one his own mother had chosen to birth him on, living and dying in the same five square miles ever after in order to conceal his magic from others.

If there _was_ something _Other_ about either Jocelyn or Clary Fray, hiding on a convergence point was the best way to keep it out of sight and mind of any nosy parkers who might come around.

Though as he crouched on a rooftop across the street and saw signs of a break-in, destruction, _and_ a fire all from a dozen yards away, it seemed that whatever they’d been hiding from had either found them or in the case of Clary’s imprudent visit to Pandemonium perhaps followed her home.

Activating his permanent Runes – most of them, he had over two dozen that never faded or turned to scars despite never being reapplied, unlike others he used every now and again that he had to apply each time – and tracing over the Awareness and Deflect rune scars that were on the inside and outside of his right forearm respectively he waited for a long moment to see if his new additions found any problems or lurkers. Believing himself to be alone, he jumped down to the street and made his way over to the kicked – or maybe blown, hard to say – in door to the auction house. A pause just inside had him listening intently for heartbeats or breath, but didn’t find anything.

Whoever had done this – and whatever had become of the Frays – it was over and they were all gone.

Less than an hour he’d been gone and the place was ransacked, though it was no ordinary robbery, that was clear even if the assumed-Otherness of the Frays wasn’t in question.

There was a painting in a glass case that was worth six figures if it was real and not much less if it was a forgery completed by the right person. A first edition of _The Maltese Falcon_ that had his fingers itching and would set him back a good twenty-grand or more. And those were just a couple of things he saw on first glance.

Whatever the intruders were after, it wasn’t things of monetary value.

Another pause, another search with his senses, and Stiles breathed out a seeking spell in a cloud of his golden magic, the general color of his spells and, well, he hated the word _aura_ now with all the new-agey connotations but yeah, aura worked, when he wasn’t shaping his abilities into magics that had their own distinct properties like healing spells or the darker demonic magics and disciplines like necromancy.

Somehow he wasn’t surprised to see the place light up like a Christmas Tree with protective magics and Rune work on the walls, ceiling, and floor – and that was only the main floor of the shop, he’d be willing to bet the apartment was layered even more heavily – but was drawn to a couple of artefacts in particular even if they didn’t seem like much at first glance.

He never had been one to judge a book by its cover and while he had no real feelings one way or another for the Frays or their shopworker Dot, he at least cared enough not to want magical items of any real power to fall into the wrong hands.

Like the Circle that was rumored to be rising again.

It was as if no one ever read Harry Potter: until you burn the body and bury the ashes _yourself_, the bad guy could never really be dead and gone and letting their followers run around unchecked was just _asking_ for trouble.

The Clave must be _frantic_.

It sent wonderful little tingles down his spine at the very thought, bigoted fuckers that they were, they deserved what was coming for them even if he’d rather Downworlders weren’t going to get caught in the crossfire – _again_.

Moving with the swiftness only those of the Shadow World possessed, Stiles collected the handful of the most powerful artefacts and quickly sealed them into his personal pocket dimension for safe keeping.

If the Frays returned safe and sound and _not_ a threat to those he cared for he’d return them.

If not…well.

Finders keepers.

He repeated his routine in the living quarters upstairs, impressed with Jocelyn – he was assuming – at her attempt to keep knowledge of her daughter secret for whatever reason by torching her room. A bit overkill for his taste but a bonfire’s a bonfire. Only a hidden box beneath the floorboards in what he thought was Jocelyn’s room from his previous visits tingled his magical radar and he sent it to join the rest of the cache when the sound of breaking glass from down below drew his attention.

_Someone_ was snooping and sneaking – and not with good intentions either as within literal moments of the hushed sounds, he heard Clary crying out for her mother and Dot.

Idiot girl.

Her mother had clearly done everything she could to hide Clary, the portal traces still lingered and except for the most powerful warlocks that wasn’t an easy spell unless using an established stationary portal, and the girl came wandering in quite literally _screaming_ for someone to snatch her or a demon to eat her.

Kids these days.

Rushing down the stairs, he made it just in time to watch – filing away everything about a _Cup_ as the identity of _Jocelyn_ started to snap together with that of a mother desperately trying to hide her daughter from an unknown-to-Stiles danger – as the Ravener demon, a species of shapeshifter, who’d taken the shape of Dot snapped and attacked the girl.

Out of the corner of his eye he caught a flash of blond hair and Runed skin, almost rolling his eyes, because _of course_ the girl – and well, Stiles and Derek but still – had been tracked not only by whoever had tossed the place, drawn a demon, and whatever else she managed to live through but the Shadowhunter was joining the party.

Runes hidden by his glamor and his weapons tucked away, Stiles made a split-second decision and tossed out a golden-tinged shield that the Ravener bounced off of and onto the downward slash of the glowing white seraph sword Blondie was using, the demon disintegrating into nothing but ash and ichor.

Though apparently either Stiles’s timing was off or Clary’s luck was really _just that bad_ as while the Ravener had lunged into the shield, the girl had tried to leap back out of the way, slamming the back of her head into one of the exposed support posts of the shop and sending Clary crumbling to the floor.

“Great.” Stiles muttered as Blondie turned to him with a still-bared sword and a cockily-arched brow. “This night _just keeps getting better_.” Hands propped on his hips, every inch of him dripping sass since there was no way out now but through or hoping he could portal faster than the Shadowhunter could stab him – and with portals not being his specialty he wasn’t fond of the odds with all of the other warding and spellwork the shop was drenched in. “I helped, Shadowhunter.” He waved a hand at what little remained of the demon as the muscle-bound blond edged between the crumpled form of the girl and Stiles. “Can’t I even get a _lowered_ weapon if not it put away altogether for the assist? Or are you so familiar with mundane concussions that you’re confident in your ability to deal with Clary and her headwound solo?”

“You’re a _warlock_?” Jace asked, incredulous, blinking at the total lack of Runes on a person who he would’ve _sworn_ had them a little over an hour ago. “But-“

“But?” Stiles prompted, smirking, then leaned back and then straightened in an exaggerated motion. “Ah, you’re the same Shadowhunter from the club little Ms. Thing saw and decided to stalk.” He clucked his tongue then snapped his fingers banishing the glamor of his shirt and altering the one on his skin then doing a little twirl to show off the “Runes” that he’d traded out for some artistic tattoos glimmering with warlock flair. He pouted his lips then snapped his fingers again, redressing – at least as far as the Shadowhunter could tell – with a shrug. “Just a bit of a glamor for dancing and trying my luck at the club.”

Jace scoffed, rolling his eyes at the drama that the warlock’s little glamor had caused though he couldn’t believe that he’d mistaken regular – if magical – tattoos for Runes. He must’ve been more shaken up by the redhead than he’d thought. Given that he’d been spotted by her despite his own runes and then watched her use a seraph blade, being rattled was completely allowable in his opinion.

Lowering his blade, he did exactly as the warlock suggested – as he’d clearly seen him fight the Ravener demon, he’d trust him _that_ much if not any further – and tucked the deactivated blade away focusing instead on the girl still slumped at their feet and the destroyed shop around them.

“What happened here?” He asked as he leaned down over the redhead, the warlock moving along with him and studying them both, seeming to calculate and weigh every word that came out of his mouth now that Jace wasn’t in danger of turning his blade on the young-looking magical being.

Not that that meant a lot.

Between glamor and immortality, warlocks almost never looked like people thought they would – or should – except for some truly old or grumpy ones that didn’t give a damn about maintaining vanity anymore or whose magic wasn't geared towards keeping them in their physical prime.

The warlock with messy dark brown hair and a quick hand with shields could be the young guy in his twenties he looked like _or_ he could be older than the Pyramids.

With his kind it was impossible to say and even harder to confirm.

“Top of my head?” Stiles offered, gently straightening out Clary into a more comfortable position and feeling the back of her head, thankfully not feeling any open wounds and only a minor bump. Her unconsciousness was likely just as much from stress and being overwhelmed as it was from the hit then. “No real clue. I’ve known the people here,” he twirled a finger to indicate the shop and ravaged apartment above. “For the better part of four years. Knew there was something _extra_ about them, Luke, the stepdad, is a werewolf and the shop assistant might’ve been – might be – another warlock. But something about them leading to this,” he shook his head. “Not until tonight when I realized she,” he brushed Clary’s bright red locks off of her face. “Had had a block of some kind put on her affinity for Sight. I’d planned to talk to her mother about it in the morning, but, well.” He grinned. “Sexiled by the roommate so I thought I’d check in, see if any nosy Shadowhunters were lingering and what do you know…”

“I need to take her to the Institute.” Jace said as he memorized what little information the warlock supplied. “We can get her medical help there and figure out why a demon was after her and what might’ve gone down.”

Stiles tsked, shaking his head. “You know I can’t let you do that.” He warned. “Her stepdad is a _werewolf_. She randomly manifested Sight on turning eighteen. What guarantee do I have that she’ll be safe in the hands of the Clave, hmm? Your people’s reputation isn’t the best when it comes to Downworlders.”

“Then come with us.” Jace snapped, making the offer on the spur of the moment as he picked up the girl, carrying her with the ease of a Shadowhunter in his prime. “Or fight me and break the Accords. Either way, we need to go before the Ravener’s friends come looking for it.”

“Fair.” Stiles decided, already hitting his “Hide” rune, a special concoction just for him and gifted by his daddy-dearest to hide his Shadowhunter heritage, with a pulse of power. He could walk through the wards of even Idris now and set them off in an instant without the buffer against Nephilim security measure that his heritage allows. Reaching out he snagged Clary’s satchel, already digging out her cellphone to turn off the GPS chip and keep any nosy parkers from finding her with it. “I’m calling my roommate. He’s a wolf shifter with ties to the New York Pack and his boyfriend has connections of his own. If I’m not released in a timely manner he’ll raise hell.”

“Fair.” Jace parroted, though with a sassy eye roll added for maximum snark effect.

Great.

Alec was going to _murder him_.

Just the way he wanted to end the day.

Dead.

“Lead the way, Shadowhunter.”

“Try and keep up, Warlock.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For more information about my stories (fanfic and original) find me on Facebook at: https://www.facebook.com/sif.shadowheart
> 
> Or follow me on Twitter: https://twitter.com/AbramsSif


	2. Chapter 2

** Hunter’s Bane **

**Chapter Two: Alec Lightwood’s Awful, No-Good, Very Bad Day**

Sending up a prayer for patience to Raziel, Alec couldn’t even believe the words that were about to come out of his mouth.

Though on the plus side, it looked like Jace had managed to avoid causing property damage for once.

Small mercies.

Not that it mattered _much_ considering that his _parabatai_ was currently trampling over about a dozen or so Clave rules that were semi-serious infractions and at least one Covenant Law that was _deadly_ serious.

“Why is there a _Mundie_ and a warlock in the infirmary?”

Funnily enough, it was the former of these that was the actual crime against Covenant Law, the latter was more a breach of protocol as he – as the acting Head of the Institute – should _always _be informed whenever a Shadowhunter brought someone in, especially a Downworlder.

“We don’t know that she’s a mundane.” Jace countered as his parabatai strode into the infirmary, frustration mingled with sharp concern pouring through their bond mark before Alec collected himself and muted the effect at Jace’s wince. “She saw through our Runes and used a seraph blade.”

Alec bit down on the scathing retort that wanted to jump off his tongue, sucking in a deep breath, nostrils flaring, and then rather _pointedly_ turning his head to look at the warlock in question, his brother giving another wince at the reminder of their non-Shadowhunter company.

Though _how_ in the Angel’s name Jace was able to overlook someone like _that_ Alec would never understand.

If the situation wasn’t so borderline dire, he’d have a hard time keeping his eyes off of him, and it had nothing to do with the glow of golden magic pouring out of the warlock’s hands and passing smoothly over the unconscious form of the assumed-mundane girl. The magic cast by the warlock, seeming without strain as the man with flawless ivory skin speckled with beauty marks that looked natural rather than contrived passed in searching arcs over the girl’s body and clothes, circling around her bag, then resuming its passes over the girl herself. There wasn’t much of the warlock on show, covered from his knuckles to his jawline by the long-sleeved sweater with his thumbs hooked through holes in the cuffs, plus the jeans and boots he wore, the only ornamentation – odd, for a warlock – being a signet-type heavy men’s ring on the middle finger of his right hand and even that was a bit plain: just a simple silver band with engravings he couldn’t make out and a simple polished black and white gemstone that was sitting flush to its mounting in the band.

Whiskey-brown eyes flashed gold for a split-second before the fascinated eyes of the young trio of shadowhunters – because of _course_ Izzy was involved, likely involved up to her perfectly plucked eyebrows in sneaking the warlock in through the Institute’s wards, probably hacking the security system in the process – and he lowered his hands then gave his report in a smooth voice that was so blandly American it could have come off of a tv show or radio program.

“If she’s mundane, someone’s in trouble.” Stiles held in a sigh. She _definitely_ wasn’t mundane though given the suspicious nature of shadowhunters he wasn’t certain how much he was prepared to trust them with. Derek would be _put out_ with him if his loose lips got his sponsor’s stepdaughter locked up in the City of Bones or the Gard in Alicante. “There’s magical fingerprints all over her mind, layered blocking spells at the least, there’s an angelic _something_ in her bag,” he tilted his head towards the canvass satchel, the _oh-so-pretty he wanted to lick the shiny shadowhunter_ _damn his libido_ picking it up and his frown lowering into an all-out scowl as he dumped it out while listening to Stiles, the trio making quick work of finding a _stele_ and a sketchbook filled with runes mingling in random drawings. “And I’m not sure _what_ the deal is with her necklace but it’s definitely magical.” He caught those pretty deep hazel eyes as the unnamed dark haired shadowhunter looked up from flipping through the sketchbook at that. “Good news is she only has a minor concussion and should wake up anytime.”

“Alec, this is Stiles.” Jace jumped in as thunderheads crashed over his parabatai’s face. “Stiles, this is Alec Lightwood, acting head of the New York Institute.”

“Lightwood?” Stiles arched a brow, something dark flashing behind his eyes so quickly that the others thought they imagined it and his spine stiffening, shoulders squaring in reaction they’d seen more times than they could count when it came to Downworlders and any mention of their parents. “Any relation to Robert and Maryse?”

“They’re our parents.” Izzy told him after sharing a concerned look with her brother. Great. Another person with an axe to grind against their family in particular and not just shadowhunters in general. That was always _fun_. And most of the reason why Alec had to know the Law inside and out and always be the best – be _better_ – than his age-mates at the Academy.

Half the time she was _still_ surprised he hadn’t been disowned when he came out when he turned seventeen and was considered an adult by Clave tradition but her parents in that regard were victims of their own scheming: Alec was _so good_ that they couldn’t afford to disown him as disavowing a shadowhunter of his skills would be an even _bigger_ scandal than having a gay heir.

Which was _also_ most of the reason why the worst of the traditionalists – who also happened to make up most of the Clave’s Council and held the two most influential positions as well – haven’t disavowed him, stripped him of his runes, and cast him out to be Downworlder or demon chow without active powers.

“Present tense, hmm?” Stiles laughed darkly. “Well, I suppose the Clave always _has_ been hypocritical.” Without giving them a chance to question _that_ statement continued as he mentally kicked his libido into submission and locked it away. As much entertainment he might get out of defiling the Lightwood heir with his filthy Downworlder hands, the thought of tainting himself with _Circle_ spawn rather turned his stomach. Shame. Alec really _was_ a beautiful man, even for a shadowhunter who tended to have quite excellent genes. “She’s not a Downworlder from what I can tell. Uninitiated Nephilim if I had to guess.”

“Told you.” Jace smirked at his siblings. “Stray shadowhunter.”

Alec scoffed, rolling his eyes even as the girl on the bed showed impeccable timing and started to rouse.

“Nephilim don’t just appear out of nowhere and _just being_ Nephilim stray or otherwise definitely _ does not _ make her anything close to a trained and battle-ready Shadowhunter.” He countered. “We don’t know anything about this girl other than she has the Sight and has access to tools,” he snapped up the stele and waved it for emphasis before tucking it away in the pocket of his tactical pants with the intent to lock it in the stele vault as soon as he left the infirmary. One less headache to worry over. “That no one outside of the Clave should have.”

“And she was attacked by a Ravener demon,” Jace shot back. “You didn’t see the place, Alec. It was totally trashed.”

“And two people are missing, either of whom might have the answers regarding our not-so-sleeping beauty.” Stiles added. “Her mother and the shop assistant, both of whom lived on the premises. Jocelyn with her daughter and Dot in an apartment downstairs.”

“You seem to know a lot about them.” Alec said, eyeing the warlock who’d gone from professional but warm to near glacial at the mention of his family name. Great. Another Downworlder who hated his family. Because he’s never run into _that_ before.

“The stepdad,” he flickered his fingers over Clary to address whose family member he meant. “Is a friend of a friend. We’ve attended a few dinners, parties, that sort of thing over the last few years. After she was so shocked last night I came by to check on them and found a demon impersonating Dot.”

“Wha-” Clary groaned, lifting one hand to press against her forehead. “What’s going on?”

Stiles crouched down, drawing her attention away from the – admittedly stunning and eye-catching – shadowhunters.

“Hey,” he said softly, using the same tone he would with any of his – _many_, over the years – younger siblings adopted or otherwise. “How do you feel?”

“Like this whole day has been a nightmare,” Clary retorted after taking a long look around herself, complete with a discreet – if she’d been around mundanes anyway – pinch to her arm to catch if she was still dreaming. “Stiles, what’s going on? Where’s my mom?”

“I’m not surprised.” Stiles said, focusing on the first part of her words. “What do you remember?”

“Waking up somewhere I’ve never been, surrounded by people I’ve never seen before,” Clary stuttered out, still looking around in shock. “Except for you. Some psychos took my mom and now you people have taken me.”

Stiles rolled his eyes, standing up to his full height. Yeah. She was going to be _just_ fine and as irritating a teenager as ever. So: normal.

“And by taken I assume you mean saved your life.” Jace snarked, half to the others as much as to the girl. At least he was old enough now not to get completely taken in by a pretty face – especially on a girl who screamed jailbait. If it had been sixteen or even eighteen-year-old Jace who’d saved her ass, he likely would’ve developed one hell of a white knight syndrome over her. But twenty-four and in the prime of his fighting years, all he saw when he looked at her was a foolish girl who’d stumbled blind and bumbling into a world she couldn’t possibly understand. As his best-friend and parabatai would no doubt point out before long: she was a liability, no matter _why_ the demon attacked her or what it was after. “Unless you’d preferred staying at your wrecked shop and burned-out apartment playing demon bait.”

“She shouldn’t even be here.” Alec crossed his arms over his chest. Information provided by the warlock – Stiles – aside, she was a liability and didn’t belong in the Institute. “You should’ve let,” he paused a moment over the name, not believing for a second it was anything but a red-herring. “_Stiles_ take her, she doesn’t belong here.”

“Where exactly is here?” Clary jumped on that chance for information, _any_ information, in the hopes that it might start making _something_ about the nightmare of a day make sense.

“I’m Jace Wayland.” He introduced himself, then gestured towards the others. “This is Alec and Isabelle, you already know Stiles.”

“I’m uh-”

“Clary Fray, we know who you are.” Jace cut her off before Alec had an actual aneurysm.

“Am I the only one who finds this whole thing unusual?” Alec asked, just utterly _done_.

Stiles met his eyes with raised brows and a nod, a bit surprised to find himself sharing ground of any kind with a Lightwood.

“You find _everything_ unusual, Alec.”

“I have to report all of this,” his glance encompassed both the maybe-mundane girl and the warlock with a glance. “To the Clave. What did I say earlier about not making extra paperwork, Alec? They’re _not_ going to be happy about _any_ of this.”

“You know what?” Jace blew out a breath, exasperated and his own temper feeding off of Alec’s, a dangerous if common side-effect of their bond. “Can you dial it down a little?”

Stiles felt the corner of his mouth try and twitch up in a smile, more entertained than he had any right to be sharing space and air with three shadowhunters, all of whom had _steep_ parental connections to the Circle _and_ the Clave, the former he hated only a bit more than the latter.

At least the Circle, for all its mass lunacy and violence, had been _honest_ about what they were.

It was more than he could say for the ruling body of the Nephilim.

“My brother doesn’t _have_ a dial.” Okay, even Izzy could admit that she was probably enjoying this shake-up to their boring shadowhunter routine more than was seemly. That didn’t mean she intended to stop. Either enjoying it or stirring the pot. This was the best entertainment she’d had outside of her Fae lover Meliorn in _ages_. “I love you, Alec, but you have a switch that’s always on.”

“I love you too,” Alec shot back with a sassy half-assed smirk at his baby sister. “But this,” he waved a hand over the sitting up form of Clary from where he stood behind the head of her bed and out of her eyeshot. “Is just-”

“Hey, you know what?” Jace locked eyes with his brother. “Can you give me a minute?” When Alec was unmoved he sighed. “Here’s a word you never hear me say: please?” He nodded and waving an arm towards the door.

“What is _with_ you?” Alec asked, more than a little confused over how Jace seemed to go from zero to invested in a random girl that unless Jace was hiding a traumatic brain injury he didn’t have any intention of trying to get into her pants which would at least explain if not excuse his recent weird behavior.

Izzy rose, entertainment aside knowing better than letting those two stay in the same room when they’re coming at each other from two such disparate points of view, and tucked her arm through Alec’s towing him away.

“Walk with me big brother.” She demanded, even as Alec repeated his demanding question: _no, really what is with him_? “Let Jace and his new friends talk without an audience. He can fill us in later.”

Alec craned his head, looking back over his shoulder intending to stare down his brother but instead finding amber eyes that suddenly flashed gold, holding him spellbound at the stunning sight the warlock made with the addition of his Mark – something which all his training shouted at him to either fight or fly at the sight of – and feeling his heart stutter in his chest, Izzy finding him suddenly more compliant as she got him out of the infirmary.

At least until the sight of the strangers – the sight of _Stiles_ – disappeared as they rounded the corner, Izzy’s placations, rather condescending ones at that which didn’t help his mood, going in one ear and other the other as he made plans surrounding the Clave’s database, his office with a locked door, and a name: Stiles.

…

Back in the infirmary, Stiles picked back up where the Shadowhunter drama had cut him off.

“What you’ve been seeing hasn’t been nightmares or hallucinations.” He told her, his firm and unyielding tone hardly the sort of thing to comfort her but also not allowing her to cling onto any comforting delusions either in preference for quick, cutting clarity. She wasn’t one of his. Had never shown enough heart or intelligence or much of anything in their interactions over the years to make much of an impression on him other than her being a pretty artistic little thing. He wasn’t about to waste what little sympathy for mayfly-lived mortals he had on her. “It’s the Sight manifesting. The ability to see and interact with the Shadow World that regular mundanes are blind to living side-by-side with them.” He arched a brow, allowing sparkles of golden magic to dance along his fingers tips before waving his hand and sending them out like a halo around Jace’s golden head. “Warlocks, Nephilim, Vampires. If there’s a story about it, it probably exists in one form or another.”

“So,” Clary struggled – part overwhelmed and part from having a concussion however mild – to put that plus everything she’d seen and experienced into _some_ sort of coherent order. “All you,” she was dazzled a bit by the haloing effect around until it dissipated at a snap of Stiles’s fingers. “_Stunning_ people have magical powers?”

Jace chuckled, shaking his head. “No, don’t confuse me and the others with a warlock.”

“A wha?” Clary blinked, Stiles clearing his throat conspicuously and giving her a little wave.

“Present and accounted for.”

“Warlock, a species of Downworlders.” Jace continued where Stiles left off. “I’m – and the others – we’re shadowhunters. We protect the human world from the demon world. Downworlders live in-between the two: the Shadow World.”

“Not righteous enough for heaven nor wicked enough for hell.” Was Stiles’s helpful commentary on that. “Shadowhunters like to think they’re special,” he added, ignoring Jace’s fierce scowl. “Because an angel bled into a cup and made them into Nephilim but they’re a part of the Shadow World _just like the rest of us_.”

“Downworlders,” Jace shot back, Clary looking more and more confused with every syllable. “Have Fallen or demonic powers or heritage but human souls: putting them in-between the mundane and the demonic. Shadowhunters keep _everyone_ safe from demons. So those _people_,” he sneered over giving the name to demons. “You saw murdered at the club weren’t people at all. They were shapeshifting demons, the same as the one that attacked you at your home last night.”

“I’m not interested in joining up with your supernatural fight club.” Clary did a decent sneer herself. “I just want to find my mom. The rest of it? Whatever it is: all I care about is finding my mother.”

“Even though she lied to you, all your life?” Stiles asked mildly, rather intentionally working Clary into a frothing rage to see how she’d react. To see the depths of her resolve. Teenagers on a mission tended to do some _epically_ stupid shit in his experience. Better to get a reading on just _how_ stupid Clary was likely to end up being before it was all said and done and someone he _actually_ cared about, like Derek, was killed in the crossfire. “Paid a warlock to block your Sight, bind whatever powers you might have?”

Clary whipped her head around with a glare that could melt bones if she had even a dollop of Stiles’s power.

“She’s _my mother_.” She spat viciously then sweetened, spinning back around with a soft look for the blond _shadowhunter_ that seemed sympathetic. “Please.” She whispered brokenly. “Please: help me find her.”

Jace took a moment and considered what she was asking, giving a mental poke to his _parabatai_ bond to see just how _done_ Alec was on a scale of “Izzy’s boyfriend hopping” to “Fuck the Clave, I’ll be gay if I want to” and finding him about in the middle or what Jace called “shit, my siblings are going to get me fired, I better clean it up before Mom finds out.”

Well, it wasn’t optimal but it wouldn’t have his brother tossing him in a cell until he changed his mind or Alec wore out his temper on hunting demons so there was that.

“I’ll do what I can.” Jace decided as a result. His curiosity over the whole situation wasn’t worth risking his brother’s position _or_ even his life as a shadowhunter. People could think what they liked and he knew Izzy was rather blind to the reality of what Alec being out meant for their brother, believing him untouchable and bulletproof because he’s _amazing_, but Jace at least knew that anything he or she did could mean Alec losing _everything_ as everyone from the parents all the way up to the Consul and Inquisitor could blame him for not keeping them in line and following the law. “But in order for me to do that, I need to know _everything_ she told you, everything you can remember about the attack, all of it, you understand?”

“Okay,” Clary gave a trembling smile, knuckling away a tear with the back of her hand as Stiles and Jace both moved to sit, albeit Jace on the end of her infirmary bed and Stiles on one nearby but with a clear view of the doorway. Not that she _noticed_ that was what he was doing and why he sat there. No, all of her focus was on herself, her mom, and the golden guy whose muscles had muscles that saved her life. “I can do that.”

…

“_Luke, Lightwoods, now Jocelyn Fairchild.”_ Stiles muttered to himself in his native tongue – one long dead except for himself and the remainder of the Hale Pack who passed it down – as he and Jace left Clary to get some more sleep in the infirmary after the teenage girl had exhausted herself telling and retelling the events of the last twenty-four hours to them. “_All I need is_…ah Hodge Starkweather,” he switched back to English, a sneer slashing across his face and turning it into something dark and vicious instead of his normal rather sarcastically cheerful expression. “Perfect.” He flopped down in a chair at the table in the operations center of the Institute that already held Isabelle and Alec, Jace sitting next to his grumpy-faced parabatai as the man in question stopped mid-word in stunned shock at the sight of who was wandering around the place. “Is New York the Circle member rehabilitation capital of the world?” He asked sarcastically as Hodge attempted to find anything resembling a coherent thought. “Wish I’d known before I moved. I would’ve chosen Oxford instead. Or maybe the University of Tokyo. You know,” he chuckled darkly. “Somewhere with an _ocean_ between myself and the living embodiments of the Clave’s hypocrisy.”

The younger shadowhunters watched the display between their mentor-slash-tutor and their new warlock acquaintance with varying levels of confusion from Izzy who was completely lost, Jace who kinda had an idea from hearing Clary’s story, to Alec who after a thorough read-through of what little information on a warlock named Stiles in the Clave’s database had a decent idea of what was going on – though he didn’t like it.

He didn’t like thinking about Hodge that way.

It was _Hodge_.

The same shadowhunter that’d taught him everything about how to fight and use weapons and everything else when his parents were too busy running the Institute to train or look after him.

That Hodge had a nasty background including the Circle was an open secret that everyone knew but no one ever talked about.

At least, until a warlock who’d _fought_ in the Uprising and cut down who-knew-how-many Circle members in defense of his kind and all the Downworld was sitting in their Ops Center with a chip on his shoulder regarding the Clave members who’d been given – from his perspective if Alec was reading him right – a slap on the wrist for their crimes. It made him sick to his stomach. Because…because it was so _fucking_ relatable to everything Alec hated or resented about the Clave and their unbending, bigoted traditions and laws. Maybe if he’d been the golden child like Jace: perfect record, perfect reputation, perfectly _bi_ and able to pass on the Wayland genes to a next generation; he wouldn’t be so understanding of Stiles’s position. Maybe. But having just read Stiles’s account of the Uprising and everything the Circle had done leading up to it, one of the few verifiable _facts_ the Clave actually had on him, he understood the warlock’s position regarding Circle and _former_ Circle.

If _any_ Downworlder, no matter their race, had done the same to shadowhunters they would’ve been wiped off the map with extreme prejudice.

After all: the law was hard but it was the law.

It was the failing of Nephilim society that shadowhunters like Valentine’s fanatics in the Circle and the purist bigots in the Clave existed, that according to them the law only applied to shadowhunters and not the very people they were supposed to protect as part of the Shadow World, robbing those hurt the most by Valentine’s terrorism of what little form of reparations they could’ve asked for after the Uprising and all of his depredations were laid bare – and on the shoulders of the surviving Circle members in lieu of a leader to blame.

“Stiles.” Hodge breathed out shakily, hands clenching hard around the tablet in his grip and almost breaking the delicate piece of technology in the process. “When Alec told me there was a warlock involved in Jocelyn’s disappearance I never thought…”

“Well, why would you?” Stiles asked flippantly, a dark smile never leaving his face as he watched Starkweather like a predator eyeing prey. “Given my history and hers it made far more sense that if Valentine’s _wife_ went missing I would’ve been the reason, not trying to find her but…” He flicked his wrist dismissively. “If the Circle is _finally_ crawling out of the sewers they’ve been hiding in, finding Jocelyn is my best chance to finally wring the life out of her ill-begotten husband _personally_.”

“Which might be a problem.” Alec spoke up, exhausted down to his bones thanks to the day that seemed to never end. Reading up on Stiles’s history hadn’t been the only thing he’d been doing while they were working on getting the girl’s story and Izzy and Hodge worked on scouring the mundane databases for information. “The Clave recently reached out to the Seelie for help finding the Circle either to confirm or deny their return. They declined. As of now, the Accords are under renegotiation and the Clave and Downworld authorities have called a prohibition on mingling or providing services while the process occurs.”

“Meaning?” Jace asked, frowning.

“Meaning,” Alec sighed, rubbing his hand over his forehead. “That officially we can’t accept help from Stiles or anyone from the Downworld in locating Jocelyn Fairchild – since if I’m understanding what Stiles just implied correctly, your little Mundie friend’s mother _is_ Jocelyn Fairchild?”

“If the visit the Circle paid to Luke from the New York Pack earlier is any sign: yes.” Stiles drawled, distinctly unimpressed that politics and their pointless one-upmanship was going to get in the way. It wasn’t like it mattered. No matter what the Downworld leaders got the Clave to agree to, they’d never change. Not really. Downworlders were all just half-demon scum to them. “Then I’ll take my leave.” He rose, pursing his lips and thoughts and work around flew through his head. “Clary has my number. As a Nephilim in hiding – whether her choice or not – she’ll have to stay with you. I’ll work on it.” He assured Jace when the blond got a mulish look on his face. “In my own way, from my own angles until the,” he rolled his eyes, already knowing the reference was going to be lost on shadowhunters who tended to disdain anything from the mundane world that wasn’t directly useful to their mission. “Powers That Be pull their collective heads out and focus on the real problem of Valentine.” He waved them away when the younger set moved to rise as he sauntered off towards the exit. “I’ll show myself out. Starkweather,” he cast one last vicious smile at the former Circle member. “Do stay healthy. I’d hate to deprive myself of my little indulgences and ripping out your still-beating heart from your chest in reparation for all the innocent Downworlder blood you have on your hands will be _just_ the thing to celebrate a birthday with someday.”

Shocked silence rang like thunder over the Ops Center as Stiles vanished from their sight and moments later from the Institute’s security system as Alec’s tablet made sure to alert him.

“Okay,” Jace blinked, already trying to figure out how to explain this setback to Clary. “He’s sufficiently terrifying. I’m suddenly regretting quite a few of my life choices over the last day.”

“And he certainly knows how to hold a grudge.” Izzy eyed Hodge’s milk-pale complexion in concern. “You alright there, Hodge?”

“Just reacquainting myself with my own regrettable life choices.” He made a weak attempt at a joke and a smile to reassure the kids he’d helped raise as his own. “So,” he pushed it all down and switched into professional mode. 

If these kids – no matter their actual ages, if they didn’t fight in the Uprising on either side to a lot of veteran shadowhunters they were still kids – were going to rely on a warlock, especially _that_ warlock, they needed to have what little information he could give them. 

“Stiles. A warlock of unknown origins, territory, age, and power who fought alongside the other Downworlders against Valentine during the rise of the Circle and the Uprising. One of the most vocal opponents of leniency for the Circle members who survived the Uprising and repented and known, as you pointed out Izzy, for holding grudges. He’s also known for his protective magics, the warded pendants he makes can cost as much as a new house depending on the enchantments and buyer, but he was vicious in battle.” Hodge swallowed harshly, as he tapped on his tablet screen and popped up a picture on the Ops main screen of Stiles taken from the Clave’s archive of pictures from the Uprising that showed a tall, strong male wearing nothing but armored pants, a hooded vest concealing his face, and boots with daggers in both hands and drenched in blood. “His glamor is one so complex and all-encompassing that even working with a Seelie sketch artist none of the survivors of the battle were able to provide a coherent description though as I just proved it wasn’t because we didn’t know what he looked like. And unlike some warlocks or Downworlders who depend on their abilities to protect them and were hobbled by Valentine’s spells and tactics targeting and disabling them where possible, more than capable of cutting a swathe through a battlefield.” Hodge gave another weak smile. “Coming from another warlock, his threat might have been mere boasting. From Stiles it was as good as a promise if I step outside the Clave’s protections for even a second – and he’s just as likely to complete it with his bare hands as he is his magic.”

“Jace, brother.” Alec ever-so-gently rested his forehead on the table and covered his head with his arms, more than ready to just _hide_ from the world for a while. “_What the fuck_ have you gotten us into?”

…

Waking up from a much-needed nap after being on constant alert for the last thirty hours, Alec blearily eyed the fire message that popped into being on the pillow next to him.

Reading the message from his mother – terse as expected – Alec buried his head in his pillow to muffle a scream.

Apparently, his troubles were only just beginning.

Not only was he going to have to convince Jace – who’d turned all big-brother protective over a total stranger – to convince _her_ to see the Silent Brothers about her block per orders from the Clave before putting her under magically-enforced house arrest due to her suspicious connection to who was believed to be Valentine’s long-missing wife but he _also_ was going to have to order a round of shadowhunter spring cleaning.

Those negotiations?

Yeah.

His parents had so _thoughtfully_ offered up the New York Institute to host due to most of the major players already being in the city, to take place in two weeks’ time for the final and official round of negotiations and treaty signing.

Fuck his _life_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For more information about my stories (fanfic and original) find me on Facebook at: https://www.facebook.com/sif.shadowheart
> 
> Or follow me on Twitter: https://twitter.com/AbramsSif


	3. Chapter 3

** Hunter’s Bane **

**Chapter Three: Cleaning Up Messes**

“So: good news,” Stiles announced striding into his loft apartment, already flicking his fingers and waving his hands to summon the center of the warding matrix and then _seriously_ reinforce it. Just a precaution. All things considered. “Clary is safe and Luke can stop having puppies. Bad news: everything else is terrible, the Circle is back, and there’s a prohibition on interaction between the Shadowhunters and Downworlders while the Accords are renegotiated since without the Downworlders to help fight Valentine the Clave is _fucked_ and they know it but nobody is really happy about it.”

Derek just gave him a slow blink better suited to a cat than a wolf shifter, not even pausing in his sandwich chewing as he worked his way through a dinnertime lunch given that Raphael had kept him up most of the night before having to leave to return to his clan and Stiles had worried the shit out of him by never returning for hours and hours.

“_Hi, Derek, yeah I’m still alive despite the Circle no longer on the extinct species list.”_ He narrated a conversation like it had actually happened instead of Stiles leaving him hanging for all night and half the next day after he dropped off the map aside from a couple cryptic texts. _“Don’t worry, I’m not doing anything stupid that might get me killed like, say, _going to the Institute without backup.” Derek judged him with the grumpy brows of judgement that he knew Stiles hated.

“Ha ha.” Stiles snarked right back, magic glowing gold and strong then flashing red before he slapped his hands together and dismissed the now everyone-but-them proof wards. “You’re going to have to hold Raphael’s hand to bring him in from now on until Valentine is dead. I’m not taking _any _chances and even with that you won’t be able to bring anyone else by.”

“Ah, yes.” Derek nodded sagely. “Because I’m ever so sociable in the first place.”

Stiles snorted, pinching the bridge of his nose and fighting off a migraine at the use of magic he’d just done that would seem simple to the uninformed but had left him shaky since he’d been doing nothing but _go go go_ since waking up a…day ago? Two days ago? That was a bad sign: it was all starting to blend together.

“The Circle is back.” He reiterated, rethinking what he just said, though he knew – since Derek had been young at the time and only heard stories – that his friend while aware of the danger the Circle represented he couldn’t really _know_. Not yet. Unfortunately, Stiles was far too familiar with Valentine and his people to think that it wouldn’t stay that way. No, if Derek remained in New York then it was likely he’d be dragged into the mess along with the rest of the Downworld. “I need you to call Luke and have him come by, then I’ll make you a portal to California. You should be safe in Beacon Hills, the Circle’s influence never stretched that far and it’s a Shadowhunter-free zone.”

“What?” Derek’s gaze turned laser-sharp and focused on his friend. He knew the Circle was dangerous. _Everyone_ in the Downworld knew the Circle was dangerous. Sending him back to California when he was only one final exam away from his degree however seemed a _little_ excessive. But, then, Stiles. When it came to protecting people he only had one setting: on to the max. “What are you talking about, I’m not going home.”

“Derek…”

“Stiles…” The wolf cut him off, not even letting him get started or before he knew it he’d be dealing with cross-country portal dizziness and a queasy belly wondering what he was doing at the Nemeton. “I’m not going. I’m an adult – though I know that means something else from your perspective because of how old you are – but I am. I have one test to finish my degree, a boyfriend, and an entire life. The Circle was never interested in shifters and druids before: our gifts are linked to nature not angels or demons so they didn’t care enough to track us. I’ll be _fine_.” He insisted, arching a brow at the barely-holding-it-together form of the most powerful warlock he – and his entire family – knew. “You on the other hand might want to consider that cross-country portal since I doubt Valentine is the type to let go of grudges anymore than you are and you killed what?” He asked, trying to remember the stories Ragnor told of the Uprising and the skirmishes with the Circle leading up to it. “Twenty of his guys? Fifty? More? If anyone in the city has a price on their head from Valentine Morganstern, it’s you not me. And that’s before you consider that rumor has it he’s hunting warlocks with a prejudice since he got his hands on his wife – something to do with a spell.”

“Wow.” Stiles finally said in a deadpan once he processed. “Banging Raphael has _really_ upped the pillow-talk derived gossip you can share.”

“Asshole.” Derek slapped him on the shoulder, then held on and squeezed to comfort his coming-down-from-panic friend. “Doesn’t mean it’s not accurate. You still need to talk to Luke or was that another one of your panic-mode things?”

“No, that I’m dead-serious about.” Stiles rubbed his hand over his face, trying to think and finding it entirely too hard. “But first – nap. I’m drained in more than one way and making decisions when I’m struggling to have more than one thought at a time is just worlds of bad. See if he can come over, bait him with telling him I have info on Clary if you have to, but I need at least a solid couple of hours to recharge first.”

“You sure about that?” Derek arched a brow. “Because I’ve seen you during mid-terms and have to say…judging based on that versus all of,” he waved a hand at Stiles’s everything. “This, you need more like a day or three to recharge not just a couple hours.”

Stiles just gave him a _look_. “Immortal, powerful, warlock, remember?” He pointed out. “Thanks to my daddy dearest I don’t really _need_ sleep except to recharge and that only takes a couple hours. That doesn’t mean I don’t _like_ to sleep when I can. Dreaming is fun and it allows the brain and soul to rest. But right now I can’t afford more than a couple hours with the Circle hunting Downworlders again and the Clave Council running around making like ostriches with the Downworld leaders capitalizing on their idiocy to pull a power play.” Stiles wrinkled his nose. “Not that the Clave doesn’t have it _coming_ with how they treat us, mind, but still: _timing_. Lives are more important than politics.”

No matter _what_ bullshit the Seelie are able to convince themselves of thanks to the illusion of safety living in a different dimension with mere _connections_ to this one brings them. They were still part of the Shadow World. Second only to warlocks, the Fae were a people – no matter the species – that Valentine was going to _have_ to come after in the course of his crusade against _demonic taint_.

“Whatever you say all-powerful immortal warlock boy.” Derek teased to his back as Stiles wandered over towards his room to – likely, based on past experience – flop face-down onto his pillow and nearly suffocate in the guise of his “nap.” “I’m just a lowly beta wolf shifter. That sort of bullshit is the province of _your_ kind not mine.”

Stiles grumbled, wishing he could deny it, but no matter _which_ part of his heritage his friend was referencing it was, unfortunately, far too true.

…

Across town, Alec was guarding the entrance to the City of Bones.

Jace hadn’t been nearly as hard to convince as Alec thought he was going to be after the last couple of days but with the prohibition on dealing with Downworlders, they didn’t have any other options but to listen to the Clave and take Clary to the Silent Brothers for her memories to be searched and – hopefully, there was a lot about the powers the Brothers wielded, let alone the demonic-siring-derived powers of warlocks that no one outside of their enclaves understood – whatever block it was Stiles had been certain was in place on her to be removed.

For her part, Clary had been _all too easy _to get to go along with the plan. All he’d had to do was mention that they might be able to reveal whatever memories she had that were blocked or altered and she’d jumped on the idea as a way to find out whatever her mom had hidden from her in hope that it might lead to her mom. He had to give it to her, she was focused and driven.

Now if only she wasn’t also ignorant, stubborn, and impetuous with an ugly little tendency to try and manipulate those around her, he might actually be able to respect that about her – they were good traits for a shadowhunter after all – but in the case of the redhead her personality deficits far overshadowed her assets, scant as they were from his perspective as the defacto leader of the New York shadowhunters _and_ Jace’s parabatai as it was Jace she tended to try and manipulate the most.

Not that she didn’t pull it on a far-too-sympathetic Izzy – part of that he was pretty sure was excitement over having a female Nephilim her own age who wasn’t devoted to their duty around – or even Hodge if she thought it would work. Still. Jace was her main target for getting her way and even after only two days he was over it.

At least Stiles had done _something_ to her phone that kept her from using it, so she couldn’t try and find her mom by going around them to one of her little Mundie friends or the werewolf she’d spoken of with Jace and Stiles.

Though she apparently hadn’t _known_ she’d been living with a werewolf. Which was par for the course really when it came to Clary Fray: they could fill a thimble with what she knew about the Shadow World with room to spare and overfill an ocean with all that she was utterly ignorant of. That she wasn’t taking advantage of _any_ of the chances offered to her so far to learn more before she got someone killed was what _really_ infuriated Alec however, above and beyond his general level of irritation regarding her…_everything_.

Respect, duty, honor had been drilled into him from birth.

Concepts that she – based on her bullheadedness and already demonstrated willingness to manipulate those around her to get her way – clearly had never been taught given her sneering over Covenant Law and their entire society and way of doing things that ran contrary or even differed in the slightest with her precious Mundie sensibilities.

A scream echoed out of the catacombs that led down to the City of Bones, Alec arching an unconcerned brow while Izzy stared in worry at the entrance though neither of them were surprised.

The Mortal Sword protected by the Silent Brothers and used to ascertained truthfulness and deal with peeling away mental magics or blocks was powerful. So much so that it was known to cause extreme pain or even kill someone too weak to endure the procedure. One of the Mortal Instruments along with the Mortal Cup that had the ability to kill Downworlders or turn mundies capable of withstanding the process into Shadowhunters and the Mortal Mirror that had been lost for ages, all of which were granted to the Nephilim by their creator the Angel Raziel to help their fight against demons, the power they possessed was not to be taken lightly.

That Valentine had killed dozens of Shadowhunters to steal the Mortal Cup during the time leading up to his Uprising before it was stolen from him in turn and was now the subject of a hunt through most of New York by the Shadow World, was a mere drop in the bucket in comparison with what some might do to possess and wield even one of the Instruments.

He rather doubted it would be as simple as unsealing Clary Fray’s memories to locate the Cup, but then the Clave in general and the Council in particular weren’t always known for their sense when it came to the Instruments or anything that had to do with confirming their place as the most powerful race of the Shadow World. Which was optimistic at best in Alec’s opinion. At the very least the warlocks and Seelie could rival them – if they ever truly cared to do so – especially as with each generation of Shadowhunters born their angelic blessing diluted just a bit more. Some of them were stronger than others, Alec and Jace were both the most powerful Shadowhunters of their training groups at the Academy and when combined could take down anyone that wanted to step into the sparring ring with them.

And a warlock could swat them like flies with a single spell or a vampire could rip their throats out before they ever saw them coming.

The Council and Clave locked away safely behind the wards of Idris and far from the frontlines of the Shadow World might think that nothing could rival the power of the Shadowhunters.

Alec knew just how _stupid_ and short-sighted that blind superiority actually was, for all that he’d thankfully never had to fight a warlock or Seelie in his life, mainly concerned with his actual charge of hunting demons and protecting the Shadow World.

Worse yet to the leaders of the Clave, if the Unseelie ever _cared_ enough about this world or dimension to want to take control of the Shadow World there wouldn't be a damn thing any of the existing and involved races would be able to do to stop them. Like the Seelie, the Unseelie dwelled in another dimension entirely. Though other than sharing heritage of an angelic nature and their home dimensions being elsewhere than the Shadow World, that was where the resemblance between the Seelie and the Unseelie ended. All the Seelie cared for were their own powers and affairs while the Unseelie's only interest in mortal realms being that of their eternal war against the demonic children of Samael. If the Seelie were irritating to the Clave, the Unseelie were both theoretical allies because of their shared mission and the bogeyman the lurked in the shadows. As while the powers of the Nephilim had been diminished due to the nature of their creation, to Alec's admittedly minimal knowledge of the Fallen angels of the Unseelie they were nearly or as powerful despite their Fall as they had been as warriors of the Heavenly Host.

Alec wasn’t surprised at the leaders of the Shadow World using Valentine’s return to gain more power and redresses for their peoples with how the Clave treated them.

Just frustrated.

He was fighting a war, one that had been going on for thousands of years and would continue likely without end, and the decisions of leaders sitting at comfortable desks half a world – or an entire dimension – away could end up costing lives of his people and there was _nothing_ he could do about it except continue to follow orders and try and locate the Cup.

Thankfully for his ever-darkening mood – a constant since rumors of the Circle had started making the rounds in his city – the sound of footsteps on stone drew his attention over to the entrance to the City of Bones and the sight of a shaken Clary and a perturbed Jace.

“What happened?” He asked after seeing that other than mental distress both were physically fine and returning to scanning the perimeter in case any enterprising demons or Downworlders trying to take advantage of the current prohibition on helping the Shadowhunters decided to attack the only known link to locating the Mortal Cup. “What did you find out?”

Jace sucked in a deep breath, already knowing that of everything that had been thrown at his _parabatai_ and the dancing Alec had had to do around the Clave Council over the bombed mission leading to Clary and Stiles in the Institute, the return of the Circle, and Stiles pointing out that Jocelyn Fray was likely Jocelyn _Fairchild_, this? This was what was going to push Alec right over the edge. The mild suspicion that his brother had been giving the girl – the same way Alec would treat _anyone_ who suddenly blew into their lives and started upending them – was about to blow up into full-on paranoia.

“Valentine isn’t just Jocelyn’s husband.” Jace said what had been lingering he was sure in more than one mind of the handful of people who were in the know about Clary’s situation. “He’s Clary’s father.”

Alec quickly flicked a look between them, turning to face them fully, as in less than a second the pieces connected.

“Wait a minute.” He said, full of _tone_ that had Jace and Izzy both wincing as it went from the middling frustration of the last two days into full-on artic chill. “You’re telling me this girl shows up out of nowhere and she’s Valentine’s daughter? Did it occur to you that she might be a spy, that this might be part of Valentine’s plan?”

“You think I planned for my mom to get kidnapped?” Clary demanded brokenly. “Or for Dot to be missing and my home destroyed or for a giant sword to be dangled over my head and find out my father is one of the most dangerous people in the world? _Really_?”

“I don’t know you from any stranger on the street.” Alec shot back. “But I know plenty from the Clave records about Valentine.” His face was hard, his siblings knowing better than to push him right now, no matter what their inclinations regarding their pet stray nephlim might be. “So do I think you’re capable of that? I don’t know. But compared to some of the acts before and during the Uprising I know Valentine _is_ and we have no proof except _your_ word that you don’t know anything about him or your own history. You’ll have to excuse me if I’m a little skeptical but I have an entire Institute of shadowhunters to protect.”

Moving faster than even Jace could stop without forewarning, Alec having kept his bond locked down so his _parabatai_ wouldn’t catch wind of the decision he’d made regarding _managing_ this situation considering the epic hissy fit Clary had thrown over having her stele, sketchbook, and necklace confiscated, he grabbed her wrist.

Clary let out a gasp as he let her go just as fast, the dull silver gleam of enchanted _adamas_ – the same blessed metal that fashioned the base of most if not all of their tools from steles to seraph blades – now encircling her wrist.

“_Alec!”_ Izzy shouted, reaching out and holding onto Clary’s arm as Jace goggled at his brother and Clary’s temper blew since she may not know _what_ he just did, but none of the scenarios she came up with to explain him giving her a bracelet that at first – and tenth – looks she couldn’t remove were the sort to cause warm-fuzzies. “What did you _do_?!”

“What I have to do to protect my people. _All_ my people of which there are almost two hundred active Shadowhunters alone let alone support staff and their families in the Greater New York area. None of which deserve to have their lives and well-being take second-best to a rogue Shadowhunter and her nearly-mundane daughter.” Alec told her, unyielding. “Per the orders from the Clave Council, Clary Fray, also known as Clary Fairchild, is now on restriction as a confirmed person of active Nephilim blood and abilities and subject to Covenant Law. She can leave the Institute only with someone authorized to take up the charge of monitoring her – otherwise she’s on confinement until the situation with Jocelyn Fairchild, Valentine Morganstern, and the Mortal Cup is resolved, and the Clave or Clave Council has made a decision regarding her unique circumstances.”

“Alec?” Jace whispered, shocked that Alec had clearly been communicating with the Clave Council far more than he’d been made aware of despite being Alec’s second-in-command as his _parabatai_. “What have you done? You turned Clary into the Clave for _existing_?”

“I did my _job_ as the Acting Head of the Institute.” Alec shot back, turning and striding away – Clary quickly learning the purpose behind the bracelet at she was yanked forward and forced to walk within a certain distance of Alec or be dragged behind him by the _adamas_ encircling her wrist. “Protecting _all_ of the Shadowhunters under my care, not just one strange girl whose focus on her own agenda to the avoidance of everything else is a danger to them and our mission – and that was before I learned who her father was.” He cast an inscrutable look over his shoulder at his stunned siblings. “Supposed innocence or not, the good of our Enclave comes before the needs and whims of a stranger. _Especially_ one with strong ties to both rogue shadowhunters like Jocelyn Fairchild and Lucian Greymark, now the werewolf Luke Garroway, or criminals such as Valentine Morganstern.”

…

“How certain are you that Jocelyn stole the Mortal Cup from Valentine?” Stiles asked the handsome – if you liked tall, dark, and intermittently furry – werewolf when their conversation regarding Jocelyn and Clarissa “Clary” Fairchild wore down. “You weren’t involved in the Circle at that point. Could she have been lying?”

“About some things, maybe.” Luke admitted with a shrug, even as he did everything except get down on his knees and beg the warlock for help. 

They hadn’t had much to do with each other since Stiles moved with Derek to the city. In fact if it weren’t for feeling the wards on the shifter’s loft that he shared with Stiles, he never would’ve pegged Stiles as a warlock in the first place, he was so good at hiding and playing mundane. As the other man pointed out: by the time of Jocelyn’s disappearance and the Uprising, Luke was already a werewolf and banished from the Nephilim environs – especially that of the Circle. He’d honestly had no idea that the innocuous-looking _kid_ that liked to cuddle with his charge’s wolf form on the couch watching _Supernatural_ reruns – and laughing like a lunatic at the scenes involving angels and Lucifer in particular – was the same warlock who’d been infamous during the Circle rise for being one of the fiercest protectors of Downworlders around. The one – next to Magnus Bane and Malcolm Fade, though rumor had it the latter was dead – that none of them had wanted to tangle with without a full company of their own to back them up. If the Circle had had bogeymen – other than Valentine himself and the never-seen rumored King of the Unseelie – it had been Magnus Bane and the warlock known only for his eyes that had glowing gold irises in battle.

That _that_ warlock was _Stiles_: cuddly, protective, snarky _Stiles_; still boggled his mind when he thought too hard on it, and he was a Shadowhunter turned Circle Member turned werewolf.

“But after he killed their twins and Jocelyn’s parents in revenge for her defection, she would’ve done anything to stay off his radar and keep Clary safe. Keeping Valentine from being able to make his own army of Shadowhunters was – and still is – the best way to do that short of killing him.” Luke continued. “If the Cup I saw when I helped her disappear into the mundane world here before she hid it away was a fake it was the best I’ve ever seen. Either way: if Valentine had the Cup, we’d know about it.”

“Agreed.” Stiles sighed, though from Luke’s description of Jocelyn Fairchild he was starting to understand where Clary got her bullheaded protectiveness over family from. Not that it was a bad trait by any means, no. But a bit of sense to harness it – like say, _not_ returning to the place where she’d been attacked all-but-begging to get eaten by a demon – wouldn’t have been amiss either. “Until the Accords are redrawn and agreed to, there’s not much any of us can do officially to help Clary or Jocelyn.” He narrowed his eyes then stood, clothing himself in his armored leather pants, boots, and gloves. His warlock Mark _did_ make shirts a pain in the ass, even if thanks to his spellwork it wasn’t a hinderance. A glamor covered his bare chest and Runes and his weapons belt settled on his hips. “But,” he smirked. “If the Circle is hunting Downworlders again, and the Shadowhunters are all being careful of their step thanks to _politics_, there’s nothing to stop me from doing a spot of _hunting_ of my own.”

“Just don’t get arrested for murder.” Luke warned.

Stiles gasped, pressing one hand to his chest in mock dismay. “Why I _never_…!”

Luke – and Derek who’d been watching and listening in his habitual silence – snorted in stereo at the gesture, knowing full well that Stiles _had_ been arrested, more than once, and in multiple countries for his antics over the years.

For a warlock with the power to keep alcohol from affecting him, he got surprisingly chatty sometimes after one to many mimosas at Mama Hale’s Sunday brunches and nobody gossiped quite like Downworlders with all the time in the world to revel in it.

…

Around dawn, Stiles strolled smug – and only _not_ dripping blood all over the place due to a cleaning spell – back into the loft.

“Good hunting?” Derek asked around a yawn as he stumbled his way through his morning routine. One more final, he kept chanting as he inhaled coffee fresh from the pot. Just one more final.

Stiles bounced in place, one hand still holding his bow – a piece older than _he_ was that more than one museum would kill for given that the people, Stiles’s and Derek’s people, only lived on in spirit in an immortal warlock who they’d taken in along with his mother, and in blood in an aging sheriff and a pack of wolf shifters whose blood was so diluted at this point it was negligible – and then twirling it in an absent display of skill honed over two centuries of practice.

“_Excellent_ hunting.” His grin threatened to split his face in two it was so wide. “While I’d prefer if the Circle assholes all died en-mass, if they’re going to exist then having them be so _utterly predictable_ as to stake out known warlock hangouts like _Pandemonium_ looking for easy marks to grab or kill is like shooting fish in a barrel. There is now six less asshole Nephilim in the world and a free warlock who otherwise would’ve been kidnapped – I think.” Stiles mused, a little uncertain on what the plan was for Dot, who’d portaled away as soon as she was safe and outside of Bane’s wards on his club.

“Well, I hope some of that perky energy keeps you going through your Comparative Lit final, Mr. All-Powerful Warlock.” Derek commented, not even bothered a bit by the idea of his best-friend killing half a dozen people over the course of a night. That was the reality of the Shadow World. Sometimes it came down to kill or be killed.

And Stiles had never been one – from the tales handed down by his family – for allowing threats the chance to either get up and walk away or return to try again or stab him when he wasn’t looking.

Which was fair enough.

Anyone dumb enough to go after someone like Stiles in the first place wasn’t that much of a loss.

All Derek could hope was that they didn’t have the chance to spawn before Stiles killed them, the world would be better as a whole if that sort of evolutionary tendency towards suicidal idiocy was allowed to die out of the gene pool.

…

_The Next Night:_

“What’s the count?” Derek asked as he dressed to go out and celebrate the end of his BA journey with Raphael at ten o’clock. Dangers of dating a vampire, their peak hours tended to be when most day-dwelling species were deep asleep. It was hardly a hardship for Derek however, since with a bit of wrangling he’d managed to have more night classes than not over the last semester and let him switch over to spending more hours awake at night. 

Stiles was just coming back from roaming the streets hunting the hunters as vampires weren’t the only ones that liked the shelter of darkness, albeit for very different reasons. Which he supposed for an immortal warlock with a taste for bloodshed was a celebration of its own, though Stiles had gone with him last night for drinks after surviving their last finals rather than going back out and scrounging for Circle members to tear into mere molecules.

“Two more idiots.” Stiles smirked, running his eyes over his best friend then reaching out and ruffling up Derek’s perfectly coiffed hair, ignoring the growl. “Ragnor sent me a message asking me to portal over during one of the breaks later for the Accord talks, so if you don’t see me for a day or two don’t worry: and yes, I’ll text.”

“Okay.”

…

_Much_ later that night, not long before dawn, Raphael suddenly stiffened and rushed out of the loft, Derek not finding out until later – there was no way he could keep up with even a fledgling’s speed though they had nothing on his strength or healing ability – that it was for an understandable reason: Raphael’s bond to his clan leader Camille had snapped.

Rumors that reached his ears over the next couple of days – and then confirmed by his boyfriend – whispered of blood dens and a fire and the Circle.

Though that last was the bit no one could really confirm unless someone bragged.

Still…

Derek knew how much Stiles despised Camille Belcourt…and it was _awfully_ convenient that he’d been haunting the streets before traveling overseas _just_ as the ancient vampire was killed.

He didn’t like to think that his best friend was quite _that_ cold-blooded and calculating but he wasn’t kidding himself either: Stiles didn’t _have_ a moral compass. Or if he did the needle just spun in circles. He relied more on those around him to let him know when he was going too far, when he was pushing too hard or letting his hands get too bloody.

If there was _anyone_ who had a grudge against Camille who’d be ballsy enough to take advantage of an alibi and a bunch of radical zealots with a history of atrocities against the Downworld, it _absolutely_ was Stiles.

That didn’t mean he _did_ it…but it didn’t mean he didn’t either and Derek had no intention of finding out.

Sometimes, it really _was_ better just to let things be.

Though, if it _was_ Stiles, he was a little pissed. Without Camille as the Clan Head, Raphael was going to have to step up in public the way he’d been doing in private. Which meant attending the Accords negotiations.

Leave it to his best friend to – possibly – manage to cockblock him without even being in the country.

…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For more information about my stories (fanfic and original) find me on Facebook at: https://www.facebook.com/sif.shadowheart
> 
> Or follow me on Twitter: https://twitter.com/AbramsSif


	4. Chapter 4

** Hunter’s Bane **

**Chapter Four: Prohibition**

Stiles stepped out of his portal just on the boundary line of the wards he’d bent his power and creativity to fashioning along with his mentor and – at this point – oldest friend.

A wise and skilled warlock of significant power, while not being the most powerful warlock in existence there were few _better_ men Stiles had met in his life than Ragnor Fell, who’d seen a mother desperate and running for the life of herself and her unborn child and whisked them half the world away to safety. Then once it turned out that the “devastatingly handsome, if quiet” man Kallisto Darklight, a rare female shadowhunter in the days when women were property, had been _indiscrete _with while on a mission away from both her _parabatai_ and her arranged betrothed had been rather more – or less depending on how one looked at it – than human, Ragnor traveled back and forth from his home to the convergence point that eventually was named Beacon Hills to teach Stiles personally instead of pawning him off on a closer mentor. An option that only someone like Ragnor would have come up with and that had successfully hidden his mother from anyone, even her _parabatai_, from her old life in Indris finding her, even after her death.

So when his mentor asked for his particular talents to reinforce his own wards, Stiles helped. When Ragnor asked for protection amulets for vulnerable warlocks, usually children, who couldn’t afford his fees, Stiles gave them under the guise of gifts. And when Ragnor asked him to hop the pond to see him in person to discuss matters while he was knee-deep in talks with the Clave Council and the other Shadow World representatives, despite Stiles being quite busy doing his best to drown his memories of the Uprising in Circle blood, Stiles came.

A wave of his hand had the wards embracing him and parting like water around his form, allowing him through without actually creating a gap or breakage, a skill few had with even wards they’d helped create unless they had total control of them, and after a simple seeking spell confirmed that Ragnor was alone and waiting on him in his parlor, Stiles dropped his glamors but left the Hide rune active.

The last thing he needed to do was give his old friend a heart attack, and while Ragnor was aware of his mother’s history, he _wasn’t_ aware that unlike the only other shadowhunter-warlock hybrid known, one Tessa Gray, there wasn’t a tool in the shadowhunter arsenal he couldn’t bend to his advantage. Let alone that he has done so since learning of his ability – one he had to keep secret from the Clave at all costs unless he wants them actively after his head. He blinked, doing a bit of math. That was almost seventy-five years ago now. How time did fly at times.

Runes and his ability to bear them would _certainly_ shake the Clave’s holier-than-all superiority they loved to use like a battering ram to get their way when it came to running roughshod over the rest of the Shadow World in this terrestrial dimension and maintain their position as enforcers of Covenant Law.

A warlock capable of not only touching adamas but _use_ it? To take a Rune without burning and shrieking in pain, let alone _dying_? Perhaps even able to venture into the City of Bones or the Adamant Citadel without harm?

Oh yeah.

If the Clave knew _what_ he was other than a powerful, if relatively young, warlock them coming for his head would be the _least_ of his worries.

The last thing the Shadow World needed was another madman like Valentine running around and performing gruesome experiments on Downworlders, let alone with the sanction of the Clave trying to _breed_ a better brand of soldiers.

Stiles trusted Ragnor like he trusted no other being alive – but _not_ with that, a secret not even Derek or any of the Hales or Stilinskis who came before him knew, using the same cover in case someone spied his Runes as he gave the Shadowhunters: tattoos. Which wasn’t a lie. It just wasn’t the entire truth either.

Ragnor looked up from his bit of light reading – just some Transcendentalism gushing on nature, nothing too wild or scandalous – that he’d been occupying himself with rather than dwell on the thus-far migraine inducing Accord negotiations. He’d known it was coming. For a warlock as old as he was he appreciated these moments of peace, no matter how tense, but the tensions between Nephilim and the Downworld never really ended in his experience. Merely waxed and waned, blowing up in spectacular fashion every century or so before calming for a time, then the cycle would continue. The Downworld was a powder keg in the years since the Uprising, especially with how many “former” Circle members had appeared to get a mere slap on their wrist in the wake of the final battle in the fields outside of Alicante unless it was proven those members had taken Shadowhunter lives as well as their crimes against the Downworld. All it would take for a full-blown _war_ between Nephilim and Downworlder was the right _spark_…and Valentine seemed all too willing to provide it.

The warlocks and vampires in particular had _long_ memories while the Fae…well were the Fae. Young Downworlders chafed at Nephilim authority. The Seelie queen cared only for her own advantage, comfortable in their separate realm as they were, and the Unseelie cared for no one but the Fae and if it weren’t for the Seelie having dealings with this dimension, they wouldn’t bother with even entertaining the Accords with their patronizing disregard. Which was fair enough for the Unseelie, he supposed. This wasn’t their world or their home. Only that the Unseelie King was the Lord of All Fae as the King of the Fallen and therefore had a duty to care for the interests of the Seelie court kept them involved in this dimension at all.

Lucifer was a _busy_ being after all. Lord of the Fae. First of the Fallen. Punisher of Wicked Souls. He was the gatekeeper between his brother Samael’s demonic creations and the terrestrial and heavenly realms as so charged by whatever passed for a divine authority that the angels seemed to listen to.

If Ragnor had the Lightbringer’s full plate, he’d delegate watch of a dimension or two to others as well for sheer logistics if not to maintain his own sanity.

Ragnor tutored and mentored a mere single warlock student every century to keep from calcifying with age, taught at the Shadowhunter Academy in Idris every now and again, and the thought of having dozens of children spread across dozens of worlds and dimensions plus millions of people to watch over as they protected the doors between realms…why it was positively stomach-churning, especially having to stare across a conference table at one of those children in the form of the Second Prince of the Unseelie who looked so much like his father that it was eerie, and wish he could be anywhere else than in that being’s sight.

Much like the Shadowhunters and their non-fighter counterparts in Idris, once you’ve met an Unseelie you’d never confuse them for a Seelie, their bearing and attitudes were far too powerful and predatory for that. To the last sword, the Unseelie were pure Fallen. Seelie however were not – and it showed.

If Seelie were bored socialites playing games save for their warriors, then all the Unseelie _were_ were warriors, Lucifer’s own children and his heavenly garrison, ready to jump into action and drown in blood at their Father’s or General’s command with all the softening indulgences of their Seelie counterparts stripped away leaving only pure strength behind.

You could sheath a sword in silk and it would still cut your head off after all, a comparison that was also quite apt for Ragnor’s last student as Stiles, as he was known for the last fifty years or so, strode into his parlor, his Warlock mark of three sets of glorious wings resting against his back. Born with eyes that glowed with golden light at any strong emotion, there had never been any hiding what Stiles was. When his wings grew in once his body was strong enough to bear such a drastic change when he was a teenager, they’d all been shaken at proof of an idea that had only just began to occur to them as his power grew more and more volatile.

A trait all-too-_common_ for warlocks whose father was one of the Fallen, their physical body struggling to contain their powerful magics.

Many never lived to their second century before imploding in spectacular fashion.

But of the many ways to describe Stiles, massing him in alongside others had never been one of them. With his training Ragnor hadn’t been surprised at all to receive an invitation to Stiles’s second century birthday bash. Having a friend whose father was a Prince of Hell had to come in handy eventually after all.

Warlocks born of Greater Demons and/or Fallen were _always_ more powerful than any others, often born with their Marks or having them appear in their first weeks of life, such as had happened with Ragnor’s old friend Magnus Bane’s golden cat eyes or Stiles’s glowing gold irises but Marks that were distinctly _non-_human such as tails, claws, talons, _wings_, those didn’t tend to appear until later childhood or their teens and their magic had stabilized to the point of maintaining the alteration their non-human blood had made to their half-mortal bodies.

And while Stiles’s wings were rather light, not adding much weight to his form, _six_ of them was a bit excessive. Pairs of black, dove grey, and white wings attached in a line down his back with metallic lining around some of his feathers, requiring a quite strong back, shoulders, arms and chest to bear them without toppling right over with the primary set being at least fifteen feet from tip-to-tip when extended and the lower sets not being all that much smaller. Ragnor estimated Stiles packed around an extra hundred pounds in wings as an adult. Not a small thing for a warlock that was a very physical being, running through forests and hunting and tracking alongside a pack of wolf shifters. He’d adjusted. Even, though Ragnor hadn’t ever seen it for himself, being able to actually fly with some assistance in lightening the rest of him from his magic.

A spell kept the edges of his wings from dragging along the floor when they were at rest, lifting them up and out a bit like a cape, while another that had had to be etched into the actual _bones_ of his wings rendered them intangible unless Stiles chose to have them interact with the physical world – and kept them from knocking over literally _everything_ when Stiles forgot to mind his feathered appendages.

Ragnor would personally rather take a punch from an infuriated Shadowhunter than a playful Stiles, let alone a swipe of his deceptively light wings. Getting those spells etched onto his bones had been a _bitch_ requiring enchanted tools. For their light weight, the boning of his wings were the next thing to titanium Ragnor had ever seen, as his mortal family had learned as well despite being almost to a one wolf shifters with enhanced strength of their own. Stiles’s wing bones simply _couldn’t_ break. They could, however, dislocate at the joint which was a painful endeavor to fix for everyone involved and had left Stiles’s young wolf cousin – the very first that he ever had though definitely not the last – reeling with guilt for months after that bit of roughhousing.

When he wasn’t feeling quite so playful, well. 

As Ragnor had personally watched Stiles stride right through a field of demonic ash just to beat Malcolm Fade to death after that obsessive asshole of a now-dead warlock had tried to feed Stiles to a nogitsune as part of a deal with the chaos demon, being wary of his wrath was simply good sense even for someone whom Stiles held in regard such as Ragnor himself.

Though considering what _else_ had gone on with Fade’s machinations surrounding Stiles, the Beacon Hills convergence point, and that chaos demon, it wasn’t like the arrogant creature hadn’t had it coming.

“Hello, old friend.” Ragnor greeted him with a soft smile, waving him over to a backless chaise that would allow Stiles to fully rest and turn off the spells on his wings for a time with a clawed green hand. When it came to glamors to hide in plain sight, Ragnor with his green skin, claws, and horns knew a thing or two about that. He smiled, seeing that Stiles was in quite the jovial mood for having the Circle returning. Ever the hunter. “Thank you for coming.”

“Anything for you Ragnor.” Stiles told him simply, sweeping his wings back and taking the seat on the thoughtfully provided chaise with a little smile. Ragnor and his little courtesies had seemed strange when he was growing up. They were very _European_ _gentleman_ and Stiles grew up the odd combination of a First Nations warrior and medicine man’s stepson and the warlock scion of an ancient shadowhunter line from his mother. “You know that.”

“I do.” Ragnor sighed, feeling every one of his thousand – give or take – years. 

He was _tired_. The Accords were an interesting experiment, he’d always thought so since they were first proposed in the early 1800s. But they weren’t perfect, nothing meant to enforce order ever was in his experience. That the Unseelie had sent a representative at _all_ rather than simply let the Seelie Queen handle affairs with this dimension was interesting in its way but he wasn’t holding his breath on anything truly coming from this round of the Downworld holding the Clave over a barrel trying to force fair treatment for their people. The prejudice engrained in Nephilim since birth was simply impossible to influence from outside their society. Even Stiles’s mother, Kallisto, had struggled with it and she was one of the most radical shadowhunters of her age – hence the befriending him, keeping her warlock child, and eventually marrying a wolf shifter. 

“I do, and I try not to take advantage of it.” He handed over a mug of calming tea. His guest couldn’t stand fine china, always worried he’d break it. “But I have a request I would like you to entertain, though I am only serving as the intermediary in this matter.”

Stiles frowned, lowering the mug he’d sipped at with enjoyment for the herbal concoction mixed with green tea base his friend had made for him and sweetened with honey.

“That doesn’t sound like the usual protective amulets.” He noted shrewdly, eyeing his friend for a long moment then drinking a longer drink of the tea mixture. “Ask. The worst I could say is no since this doesn’t sound like a favor for you.”

“Are you still living in New York?” Ragnor asked, sharp eyes easily catching the minute eye-twitch that gave him away. “Good then. An old friend of mine is quite occupied at the moment with these negotiations with the Nephilim, normally not a problem. However, what concerns is that many of the representatives involved all make their homes in the City and, naturally, the Circle…”

“Has been most active there.” Stiles finished, knowing that much for himself. “Considering I know of five former-Circle members living in the City, let alone whatever friends, family, or acquaintances they have, I remain completely unsurprised at it and yet remain hopeful that it won’t change since it makes hunting them _much_ easier if I don’t have to portal to various cities tracking them.”

“Five?” Ragnor blinked, he hadn’t been aware of _that_, and he could tell it burned at Stiles however he’d come by the knowledge. “Other than Lucian?”

Stiles rolled his eyes, then rattled off: “Jocelyn Fairchild is currently in the hands of her husband, Hodge Starkweather is bound to the New York Institute, and my informants say that while I didn’t see them there, Maryse and Robert Lightwood are the current Heads despite their son being the acting head of the Institute.” He snorted in derision at the Clave Council’s idea of _punishment_ for traitors. “Might as well have put a homing beacon on the City for Valentine to latch onto.”

“Is she?” Ragnor hummed under his breath. That explained _quite_ a lot about why Valentine is hunting warlocks with more than even his usual zealotry. “Then I would assume he is searching out our kind for the antidote to the potion she was prepared to take under such circumstances.”

“Potion?” Stiles arched a brow, somehow not surprised that Ragnor knew at least a little of what was going on with the Valentine-Fairchild situation. Then he shook it off at the bland _look_ Ragnor gave him. Fair enough. Some information _was_ dangerous if it fell into the wrong hands and of the two of them, Stiles is rather making a bigger target of himself than Ragnor. “Never mind. The favor?”

“As I’m sure you know,” Ragnor skipped over Stiles’s uncustomary docility, pleased as ever that his stepfather’s prudence tended to reign over him with far more regularity than his mother’s impulsiveness or his father’s temper. “Magnus Bane, the High Warlock of Brooklyn, is one of the representatives of the Shadow World who works with the Clave with some regularity other than myself or dear Tessa. And while there’s rumors that the final round of negotiations and signing will take place elsewhere as a sign of union among _all_ factions of the Shadow World,” which would be _quite_ the change as before all the represented parties had had to journey to Alicante for a signing in the Nephilim’s home territory. “The first rounds and drafts of the new treaty and Accords are all taking place in Idris, removing Magnus as one of the warlock representatives from protecting a territory that is currently under heavy Circle fire.” 

Ragnor sighed. You couldn’t get Ragnor to take up the position of High Warlock over a territory again for all the riches of Isabel and Ferdinand. Though at least Magnus had had the sense to split such a densely-populated territory like New York City into boroughs with a High Warlock for each when he’d taken up the position after the previous NYC High Warlock died.

“I doubt he needs my help with wards or emergency portals.” Stiles noted drily, thinking of Bane’s reputation. With his age and reputed power, there was no way he needed his help. Ragnor was a different matter. His friend had skill and experience but his power in comparison to Stiles or Bane was not even in the same realm. Maybe even literally, depending on what type of demon Ragnor’s father was or had been, something even Ragnor didn’t know. “Honestly, I’m baffled to think about what _Magnus Bane_ might need from _me_.”

Ragnor chuckled at the self-effacing statement from a warlock that usually was confident in his skills.

_Humble_ wasn’t a look he’d seen on Stiles’s handsome face since he was a mere stripling growing into his wings.

“Your reputation, mostly.” Ragnor admitted, setting his teacup aside. “With the disappearances, our people are pulling back, going into hiding, gathering together in the hope that too large of a number of them together will be too great of a risk for the Circle to dare. And as the Circle is focusing on New York, Magnus is of the opinion that having a warlock with as _distinct_ a reputation as yours at hand to fight should the Circle opt for idiocy would help relieve much of the tension that threatens to destroy the safe havens in the City before Valentine even sends his minions out to crash against Magnus’s wards and die.”

“A reputation for protective magic and bloodlust, you mean.” Stiles’s smirk was a bit too bitter to be cocky. “I know what our people think of me.”

With few exceptions, warlocks tended to be lovers, not fighters. They’d rather retreat behind protective enchantments than engage in open battle, not unlike the Seelie. It was hard for Stiles to blame them. There weren’t many warlocks of Ragnor and Bane’s age for good reason. Most women finding their children had been sired by demons – or thinking they’d been possessed – killed them or turned them over to the various religious orders to be killed.

_Hiding_ in the wake of that sort of hate was only good sense and kept a lot of warlocks alive.

And as the homily said: old habits were the hardest to break.

Warlocks aren’t raised to be warriors like Shadowhunters are, Stiles as far as he knew being the only exception to that rule. They ran, hid, waited and watched, and only fought when backed into a corner. To them, someone like Stiles was almost anathema, his personality and actions were so against the norm.

Now Magnus Bane wanted to use him to give comfort to a people who were almost as afraid of _him_ as they were their actual enemies.

Fate does love its little ironies.

“They respect you.”

“They fear me.” Stiles wrinkled his nose. “And well they should. I wouldn’t know mercy if it walked up and slapped me in the face, let alone compassion or sympathy. If it weren’t for Valentine’s crusade targeting the children first, the most vulnerable of our kind, I wouldn’t have bothered getting my hands bloody for them and bringing myself to the attention of the Clave.”

“Being a guardian is in your blood, old friend.” Ragnor agreed to that much, though he would – as he always did – disagree with Stiles’s opinion of himself vigorously if he had the time. Alas, it would have to wait for another day to remind Stiles that for all he claimed the “gentler” emotions were beyond him, he certainly turned soft and sweet enough when around those he considered his own. “Shall I let Magnus know to send you a fire message with the locations of the havens for you to do a tour of, pat some hands, play with some children perhaps? When you’re not haunting the streets and taking out Circle trash of course.”

Stiles sighed, tossing back the rest of his tea like a shot of whiskey then rose with a clipped nod, a wave of a hand fashioning a portal to take him back to his loft and another putting his glamors and everyday spells back in place. Armor that he had no need for with his mentor and friend. If he was expected to go play nice with skittish warlocks who peddled love potions or what-have-you for a living, he was going to need more than a mere nap to recharge and put him in a good mood.

That was the problem with _old friends_. They knew just where to poke to hit soft spots. Or to punch through armor meant to protect old wounds.

“I’ll do it.” He agreed then warned: “Tell anyone that I’ve a soft spot for kids and I’ll curse you _purple_.” He smirked when Ragnor bit back a gasp, suddenly turning pale under his green at the very on-point threat. “_Old friend_.”

…

Magnus Bane, High Warlock of Brooklyn and one of the most powerful warlocks in the world – more to the point one of the only truly _powerful_ warlocks in the world that could stomach having dealings with the Clave, sat back after sending off the list of locations to the cliched friend-of-a-friend, glad to have one less thing to worry about after the spate of problems cropping up in recent days.

Not that he was _happy_ to find out that a warlock with the reputation and power of “Stiles” who, for all that they’d both fought at the Uprising Magnus had never actually met, had been living less than a mile from his own home for the last four years and without a _single_ warlock in the City aware of it.

None of his fellow High Warlocks over the boroughs.

None of the _thousands_ of their people who lived in the City or the surrounding area.

Not a single _soul_.

In fact, from what Magnus had been able to discover as soon as word of a warlock roaming the streets killing Circle members had reached him, nobody in the Downworld except a scant handful had had any idea that the infamous Stiles had relocated to New York from…_wherever_ it had been he lived before that, a fact that if Ragnor knew he wasn’t sharing despite coming forward with knowing the warlock at all to ease a few minds at the negotiation tables with the Clave Council as Stiles had been a point of contention since his sudden emergence and equally swift disappearance during the last days of the Circle.

Magnus didn’t mind having a warlock around with a fierce protective spirit and the power to back it up: on the contrary, it was a bit of peace of mind provided with the knowledge that his people would have a sword and shield ready to defend them if they were attacked while Magnus was far too occupied with trying to keep the Seelie Queen and the Clave Inquisitor Imogen Herondale from sniping each other into an early grave.

Others weren’t _nearly_ so blasé.

If it weren’t for the Clave Council being _well aware_ of the disparity in their numbers, let alone their actual _fighting_ numbers, up against that of the Downworld and the reemergence of a mutual threat in the Circle and Valentine Morganstern, Magnus would be willing to bet his beloved Brooklyn loft on the Council trying to come up with _any_ crime they could lay at Stiles’s feet to justify either a capture or kill order. It wasn’t like it would be the first time. But if the Downworld leaders had it their way, the Clave would soon find their legal ability under the Accords to do such a thing severely curtailed.

Some of them more than others were familiar with the exact chapter and verse of Covenant Law after all – and knew _exactly_ in what ways it differed from the Accords and then again from how either of those things were enforced.

The New York Institute, one of the largest in the world due to demons having a _taste_ for the City, was manned by – by Magnus’s count – somewhere between a hundred eighty and two hundred active Shadowhunters. More than two hundred warlocks alone lived in Manhattan, at least fifty vampires made up the single Dumort Clan – not even the only Clan in the City, and at last count the Jade Wolf pack was at least seventy strong. And _that_ was before the Fae were even brought into the equation, which if Prince Ailill’s presence, him being the Second Prince of the Unseelie and official Ambassador of the Fae to this realm no matter what the Seelie Queen liked to say or how she acted, was any sign they were about ensure they were taken into account.

Nephilim didn’t breed _quite_ so much like rabbits in the modern era, modern technology and tactics making them hemorrhage fighters with far less rapidity than they once did, but even if they started working to improve their numbers _tomorrow_, without the Mortal Cup to directly change the mundanes that were able to survive the process into more of their kind, they were outnumbered and outgunned.

Magnus wasn’t the only immortal being holding grudges against the Clave but he was one of the most reasonable.

A bit of that fair treatment and justice for all that they held up as their ideal was all he wanted rather than waste his time on redress and reparations.

He wanted it done.

He wanted to not have to tell anymore warlock children that their parents were killed because the Clave produced a madman and then rather than putting him down when he started spouting treasonous zealotry against the Shadow World, they let him wage a war on the Downworld.

Well, that and a good party.

Accords negotiations were _stressful_ and were sure to drag out until the actual summit in less than two weeks.

After dealing with Imogen Herondale’s sneering condescension without hexing her bald, he deserved a martini, a dance, and a beautiful…hmm he was thinking boy to take home.

Not necessarily in that order.

But first: his duty to his people.

Being High Warlock, for all that most of the time it was merely seeing and being seen as a reminder of the power his people contained, was, at times, a _total_ drag.

And not the fun kind involving glitter, individual expression, and true Queens, either.

…

“But I just don’t _understand_!”

As the piercing whine – a sound that _everyone_ going near the training center had gotten used to in the last few days since Clary Fray charged into their world and kicked off the first action in a whole chain of world-shaking events – hit Alec’s ears as he went in search of his siblings and Hodge to go over their options for the whole _Clary Fray-Mortal Cup_ quagmire, he paused for a long moment deeply wishing that he could just turn around and vanish back into his office to hide behind paperwork and the nightmare that was dealing with hosting the upcoming Accords Summit.

He wasn’t an idiot.

This was a rise or fall, win or lose, live or die moment for his career as the Head of an Institute – _any_ institute, not just the New York branch. Navigating Shadow World politics. Hosting Clave dignitaries. Providing security for whatever site is decided on, _all_ of it was a landmine just _begging_ for the slightest misstep to blow up in his face. To give the Clave Council a reason to tear him down as their only openly gay Shadowhunter in a position of major leadership and permently remove the Lightwoods from their position of influence within the Clave at large.

He wasn’t a fool. There was a reason that certain Shadowhunters had chosen to transfer out of the Institute when his parents were ordered back to Idris last year and Alec was officially made Acting Head instead of the unofficial role he’d played since his late teens of handling things and steeping up whenever one or both of them had to leave for Clave business. But the Council weren’t fools either. There was _also_ a reason why certain rumors about him persisted and after his “temporary” assignment as Head they’d gotten inbound transfer requests as well.

Alec was far from the only gay or just _not totally straight_ Nephilim _or_ Shadowhunter in the world.

He was just the first to make a point of refusing an arranged marriage based on the fact that he was gay, loudly, and in the middle of the operations center where his parents had presented him with a list of candidates like it was a completed decision and not a grasping attempt once he was of age to hide the fact that he was gay from Clave leadership.

Maybe they’d thought he wouldn’t make a scene if they did it in public. Anyone could’ve told them that wouldn’t work on him. Though given that he’d had to tell them point-blank that he was gay when they’d tried to set him up on a date with Aline Penhallow when he was sixteen and Izzy and Jace and freaking _Hodge_ had all known he was weak for dick since he was struggling with his crush on Jace at fourteen, before their _parabatai_ bond made it clear his love was filial and not sexual, they obviously didn’t know him well enough to see just how badly that would work out for them.

Yeah, the Clave Council would _love_ to have a reason to knock him down a peg or twenty.

Too bad for them that he thrived on challenges and despite his parents being rather _conservative_ in their views of Downworlders, none of their children were that way so he wouldn’t be intentionally offending any Downworld dignitaries out of spite.

That was the sort of thing he could see his mother doing when she was his age even if he’d heard hardly any stories from his parents’ lives before they were in New York though he did have fuzzy memories of their family home in Idris, so he knew they weren’t based in the States forever.

So adding in the _Clary_ situation to the Accords Summit was very much a problem he _did not_ need, especially throwing in her connection to Valentine _and_ that her mother was the last person known to have possession of the Mortal Cup but was – either conveniently or inconveniently, he hadn’t decided yet – missing.

Though given that he had to deal with _Clary_ proximity-bound to the Institute or a Shadowhunter he trusted in order for her leave the premises he was definitely leaning towards _inconvenient_.

“No, you don’t.”

And huh, Alec puffed out his lips in surprise as his brows shot up towards his hairline, absently activating his Unseen and Soundless Runes to do a little spying, he’d never thought he’d hear Jace be _chiding_ with Clary considering that his _parabatai_ was hardly filled with the warm fuzzies for Alec’s decisions regarding her and the Clave Council, such as the proximity bind that only Alec knew the anchor for. One that even if Jace or Izzy figured it out, it wouldn’t help them since with the coming Summit and the return of Valentine, security at the Institute was at the highest point any of them could ever remember. About a dozen security measures laid in between Clary Fray and the girl just being able to walk out the door without his approval and until this mess started clearing up and/or she started proving herself trustworthy that was how it was going to stay.

Alec turned the corner into the room just in time to watch and hear as Jace blew out a breath in exasperation, easily clocking Hodge standing and leaning on a training staff and Izzy sitting on a bench nearby with her _sympathetic but entertained_ expression on, all of them wearing training clothes even though Izzy was supposed to be researching and putting together a primer for the Institute staff on the various courtesies the dignitaries would expect – of all races – and Jace should’ve been gearing up for a patrol while Hodge as the resident trainer and weapons master underwent the trail of turning an eighteen year old girl with an attitude problem into something even _vaguely_ resembling a Shadowhunter.

“You don’t understand.” Jace continued, crossing his arms and giving Clary what Alec called his _done with your shit_ stare when he needed to remind his _parabatai_ to tone down the salt and sass a notch. Which Alec _was_ perfectly capable of doing no matter what Izzy liked to tease. He just rarely saw a reason to. “You’re not a Shadowhunter.”

“But-”

“You’re not.” He cut her off. He was _so_ glad she was too young for him no matter how pretty or that she had what Izzy called _Princess hair_. “You’re a Nephilim, yes. You have angelic blood and can use angelic tools. But you don’t have a stele or runes or training in either. Before that fight in Pandemonium you’d never held a weapon in your life. Being a Shadowhunter isn’t just about having the blood of angels. It’s a vocation, a calling, and a duty that threads through everything in your life from the moment you’re born. So if you don’t want to train, fine.” He shrugged. “You won’t go on patrols or be approved for missions. If you don’t want to learn from Hodge,” he waved a hand. “I’m sure Alec won’t have a problem signing the papers to send you to Alicante for training like I’m sure the Clave would prefer.” He turned his head and arched a brow at what looked to Clary to be an empty doorway. “Right Alec?”

With a wave of his stele, Alec deactivated his runes both Clary and Izzy looking surprised to see him while Hodge – because he was _Hodge_ and he’d taught them all almost everything they knew – and Jace were not, though in the case of Jace it was their bond filling him in and not some super-trained awareness like their longtime teacher.

Alec pursed his lips, shrugging and lifting his brows as he leaned a shoulder against the doorway.

“Not in the least. The Consul wanted her taken to Alicante and interrogated, the Inquisitor was leaning towards the City of Bones. It was only that her memories are still missing that I was able to swing confinement and observation here instead.” He waved a hand towards the doorway. “Please, if you don’t like the way I run things, I would be _more_ than happy to facilitate your transfer elsewhere. Because as you like to say and Jace just pointed out: you _are_ a Nephilim. Which means you’re subject to our laws.” Seeing her face set in stubborn lines and her spine straighten he nodded, taking that as her making a choice. If she didn’t like the consequences of it, that in the end would be on her. “Hodge is your trainer. You don’t have the skills to spar and actually learn from anyone else to make you useful in the field anytime soon.”

“Jace-”

“Jace has other things demanding his attention.” Alec gave her an expectant look. “Hodge will make a training schedule for active skills like combat. He’ll give you a list of studying to do when you’re not doing that or helping out around the Institute.”

“My mom-”

He had to give it to her, she didn’t seem to have quit in her vocabulary.

It would be admirable if it weren’t so infuriating.

“Is somewhere we can’t find and the best trackers we could put on the case are Seelie, which means they’re out of the question until the Accords are finalized and back in place.” He stood up, coming off the doorway. “Speaking of which: Hodge do you have that briefing on Magnus Bane ready?”

“I do.” Hodge nodded, cracking a smile at the boy who he’d watch become a hell of a man and leader.

“Mission briefing in ten,” his look made it clear he was talking to everyone. “If we’re going to find the Mortal Cup _or_,” he cast a warning glance at Clary when it looked like she was going to try and say something. “Jocelyn Fairchild, we need to talk to Magnus Bane.”

“What about the Accords?” Clary frowned in honest confusion. She’d picked up enough to know that none of the Downworlders were helping the Shadowhunters at the moment but she wasn’t quite clear on _why_ other than it had to do with a treaty called the Accords. And Alec had _just_ said that they couldn’t use Seelie to track so… “What makes him exempt from the prohibition?” She shrugged at the surprised looks the others gave her. “I mean, I want my memories back like, ten years ago, but even with him signing the big block in my head and the Silent Brothers not being able to remove it without killing me, I don’t want to get sent to Alicante or locked away in the City of Bones because we screwed up and broke the prohibition.”

“And that,” Alec pointed at her. “Is one of the first things you’ve ever said that gives me hope I’m not wasting time protecting you. C’mon,” he jerked his head towards the showers. “Go get cleaned up and then Hodge can fill us in.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For more information about my stories (fanfic and original) find me on Facebook at: https://www.facebook.com/sif.shadowheart
> 
> Or follow me on Twitter: https://twitter.com/AbramsSif


	5. Chapter 5

** Hunter’s Bane **

**Chapter Five: The Magnificent Magnus Bane**

Hodge lit up the large screen used for mission briefings with a series of pictures, using them to emphasize his profile of Magnus Bane, High Warlock of Brooklyn, and for many people general pain in the ass as he was far too powerful to truly snub or eliminate and far too irreverent for – as Isabelle would put it – “old school” Shadowhunters and Clave members to handle.

“Magnus Bane,” he told the young shadowhunters – plus Clary – that gathered around one of the ops planning tables. “Is over three hundred years old, that we know of, and as you can see,” he smiled, arching a brow in amusement at the photos the Clave had in their database of a warlock who at times was their greatest ally or worst enemy depending on the situation. “He’s not exactly shied away from the pleasures of _every_ century.” Pictures were flicked up onto the screen in turn of a very handsome man of clear Far East descent at parties and galas in black and white followed up by full-color scenes of him at modern clubs, including the one he was known to own and maintain as a sort of mingling point for Downworlders of all species and walks of life, Pandemonium, all of which was outlined in the report Alec had asked him for to go with the general overview of the briefing. “His tastes are as exquisite as they are extravagant. He has never been known to abstain from excess.” Hodge couldn’t help a little pot-shot at the absent warlock. “Or from anything for that matter, if it caught his legendarily hard to secure interest.”

“Sounds like the Downworld’s David Guetta.” Clary commented.

“Guetta’s already a Downworlder.” Izzy offered her opinion on that. “Vampire,” she grinned as everyone turned to her in varying degrees of disbelief. “Never seen him in the daylight.”

“Can you two focus.” Alec took them to task, eyes locked on the picture clearly pulled from a nightclub security cam of Magnus surrounded by beautiful people and still seeming to outshine them all with his extravagant clothes, hair, jewelry, and even makeup. He hadn’t thought that was a look he’d be into. He supposed on the right person with the right amount of confidence, almost anything could be attractive and Magnus’s look was hardly cringe-worthy. “This is not a joke.”

Izzy sighed. “Someone needs to get slayed…” She carried on the pun despite, or maybe because of, her brother’s less-than-amused tone and as ever classic example of resting-grumpy-face. She couldn’t really call it bitch face because, while he could be a jerk at times when he got too focused or frustrated, her big brother didn’t really have a mean bone in his body.

“Alec’s right,” Hodge chided them sternly. For young shadowhunters and shadowhunter-adjacent like these four, even with Jace and Alec being fierce and in their prime fighting years, a warlock of Magnus’s years and deeds wasn’t someone to take lightly. “Magnus is the most powerful warlock I’ve ever known. And while he’s made friends with a few of us in the past, maintains a deep distrust of Shadowhunters.”

“Seems to be a lot of that going around.” Alec pointed out, thinking of Stiles and how he’d reacted to his name and then seeing Hodge. “Can’t say they don’t have reason, even if I don’t liked being blamed for someone else’s history.”

Hodge hid a wince at that, feeling the barb even though he knew it wasn’t meant for him, focusing on Clary’s question.

“Then why did he help my mom block my Sight and my memories?” She asked. “Isn’t she a Shadowhunter?”

“Yes,” Hodge smiled softly. He knew she – both her focus on Jocelyn to the exclusion of all else as well as her general manner and demeanor – irritated Alec in particular and got under Jace’s skin as well at times but looking at her, Clarissa was the spitting image of a young Jocelyn, albeit with brighter hair from adding in Valentine’s light blond to her mother’s dark auburn. “One of the best. But,” he warned. “_Help_ might not be the most accurate word. Now, did Magnus provide a service for Jocelyn? Perhaps.” He tried to get this point into her head. “But more than likely Jocelyn paid Magnus handsomely for his magic.”

“Warlocks usually require payment before they help Nephilim with anything.” Jace supplied, coming around from his standing position and sitting between Alec and Izzy instead of lurking in the background.

“Word from the Clave is that in addition to the prohibition, most warlocks have gone into hiding since Valentine started hunting them.” Alec added stoicly, allowing none of his fascination with the…_shiny_ form of Magnus Bane come through though he knew Jace knew something was up from the curiosity pinging at their bond. Guess his hit of arousal at Magnus’s picture hadn’t passed his _parabatai_ by unaware, only _which_ beautiful person in the buffet for the senses the photo supplied being the question. “Between that and the High Warlock being involved in the Accord negotiations, finding him before the Summit is going to be a nightmare.”

“And why can we find him?” Clary asked as that point still hadn’t been clarified for her though everyone else seemed to just _know_. An ongoing and supremely frustrating facet of her stay at the Institute. “I thought with the prohibition that warlocks weren’t allowed to have anything to do with shadowhunters and vice versa?”

“That sort of prohibition comes from the top.” Izzy told her, calm and kind as she always was with answering her new friend’s questions. “The Warlock Council, the Clave Council, the Seelie Queen. Only someone with similar prestige could ignore it and not face heavy consequences, and…” She trailed off leadingly, wanting Clary to fill in the blank to prove to her hardheaded – and often hard-assed – brothers that while the learning curve was a work in progress, Clary _was_ learning.

The other girl wasn’t stupid at all.

She just had a massive information deficit that unless rectified would continue to push her into making ill-informed decisions that would reinforce the idea that she was either dumb or oblivious or both and the whole thing would just become a vicious cycle that was most likely to end with Alec following through on his wish to ship her off to Idris and make Clary Fray someone else’s headache.

Izzy had gone _way_ too long without female companionship among the Shadowhunters – at least in her own age bracket – to let Clary slip through her fingers because she and Alec got along like two wet feral cats stuffed in a one-cat sack.

Clary had a good heart, Izzy could see that.

She just needed to learn when _not_ to push Alec and/or Jace, which was very much still a work in progress and made Izzy think that she’d clearly not grown up around the same type of guys that Izzy had since otherwise she’d have at least half a clue how to manage them when needed.

“Magnus Bane is one of them so he has the clout to do what he wants.” Clary nodded, wrinkling her nose. She’d never liked that kind of “do as I say, not as I do” mentality, even as a kid. It was one far to common in her opinion in people who held authority. Though Alec for all his scowls and sniping and being _completely unreasonable_ about a lot of things actually seemed to hold himself to the same standard as he did everyone else, Clary having seen him working from dusk to dawn and then some every day she’d been staying at the Institute. “And since the Clave wants the Cup and my memories might have information about it, they’ll look the other way.”

“As long as nothing blows up in spectacular fashion,” Alec added so she didn’t think this was a blank check to run wild over New York (not that she could with her binding) and kick over anthills and knock down hornets nests until she found her mom. “Yes. The Clave has authorized me to take whatever steps I deem necessary and advisable in gaining information regarding the whereabouts of the Mortal Cup and ideally locate and return it to Idris. Just so we’re clear.”

“So how do we find Magnus if he’s in hiding or busy being a High Warlock?” Clary asked.

“We don’t.” Jace floated the idea, sharing a look with Alec. “Magnus finds us. Set up a meeting, somewhere protected, convince him it’s worth it to come out of hiding.”

Izzy smiled wickedly, rising and taking the tablet linked to the main screen from Hodge.

“And I know just the place.” She grinned, already excited for the mission that Alec was sure to approve her to be on. It was whether he’d unclench long enough for Clary to go to the initial meeting that was the question. Drawing a rune on the tablet to recall the image she wanted, she tossed up a scan of a flyer onto the screen.

Hodge chuckled softly, hiding his grin at her antics behind his hand as her brothers either laughed or scowled – and no need to guess who was who.

“Downworld rave,” Jace read the details on the flyer. “Nice Izzy.”

“Where’d you get that?” Alec asked even though he was pretty sure the answer started and ended with her Seelie lover Meliorn.

“During my surveillance of the Downworlders,” she said breezing right over the fact that that surveillance was mainly limited to parties and clubs with Seelie and/or Meliorn’s bedroom. “From what I hear Magnus likes to party and with having to deal with the various Shadow World councils for hours on end,” she smirked. “He probably needs his fix.”

“He’ll never go for it.” Alec shot her down. “With Valentine hunting him and his habits as infamous as Hodge implies, it wouldn’t be safe.”

“Of course he will.” Jace, per their well-memorized dance of Jace and/or Izzy coming up with an idea that would have their mother throwing fits then Alec shooting them down then the other backing up whoever initially suggested the plan. It worked for them and kept everyone happy with the illusion that everyone was continuing in their Maryse-determined parts. Especially since if Alec was _really_ against a plan he had his ways of getting his point across when they started going to far. Hence, Clary in a binding bracelet and Jace and Izzy having utterly no idea how to get her out of it no matter how hard she pouted, ranted, or batted her lashes at them. “He’ll blend in, hide in plain sight, and wash off the dust of dealing with the Clave Council in pretty people and strong drinks. That’s his m.o., right?”

“I don’t know,” Clary frowned, just as confused over Alec not being as against this plan as she would’ve thought as how convoluted the whole thing seemed. “It-”

“Trust me,” Izzy told her. “If Magnus is coming out of hiding, he’s going to one of the biggest parties of the year.”

Hodge leaned forward, backing Izzy up which rather sealed the deal for Alec though there was still the Clary issue to deal with and only a day to figure out what he was going to do about it as far as going to the rave was concerned.

“Never underestimate Magnus’s hedonism.” Hodge warned them, smiling. “_Or_,” he knew just the bait to make the meeting irresistible. “His greed. Come with me.”

…

Alec listened with half an ear as Hodge ran down the basics of the – stunning, really, though the filigree wasn’t really his thing – two hundred year old, as a conservative estimate, four carat unheated flawless Burmese ruby necklace enchanted with magic to warn against demonic presence that Hodge thought would work as bait or bribe for Magnus Bane to meet with them.

Trading a London townhouse for a necklace was quite the investment even two hundred years ago.

The necklace would only be worth expontentially more now, especially with how rare it was anymore for warlocks to work openly with the Clave in the wake of the Circle’s actions. While the gemstone could be replaced, the magic was the sticking point. If they gave the necklace to Magnus as payment for the spellwork removed from Clary, there was no guarantee that they would ever find another with similar enchantments, especially the permanent kind that were according to Hodge inset into the ruby itself.

It was, to put a point to it, _priceless_. The sort of artefact that anyone, even the Clave with all their resources or an aged and powerful warlock, didn’t part with lightly or at all. Trading it away for anything less than equal in gravity would be a death knell for Alec’s tenure with the Clave, let alone anyone else involved who had less clout than him and Jace.

Good thing that the Mortal Cup was the sort of thing that the Clave and Clave Council would pay literally _any_ price to regain, be it in artefacts, money, jewels, weapons, knowledge, or even lives.

He hated it, even as he understood it.

Lives shouldn’t be less important than a _thing_, Mortal Instrument blessed and gifted to the Nephilim by Raziel or not, but what kept him going and following the Clave Council’s demands to find the Cup wasn’t the current measure of cost but the eventual one.

Without the Cup to create new shadowhunters and refresh the blood and power of existing lines, in time – no matter how long it took – the line of the Nephilim will falter and break and without them the world would fall to demons in this dimension, even if it took a thousand years in the future to manage.

That was what sat on one side of the scale of every decision regarding the Cup that he’d taken since recovering it became an actual part of his new normal instead of a boyhood daydream of heroism surrounding the two lost Mortal Instruments: the Cup and the Mirror that when joined together with the Sword that the Silent Brothers guarded fiercely in the City of Bones could be used to summon the Angel Raziel to earth – their ultimate Hail Mary play in case the Nephilim weren’t able to continue holding the line against the demonic forces of the Void.

Alec didn’t believe in holding lives cheap, not when every death – shadowhunter or Downworlder – in the greater New York area that fell to the Circle or the demons was ultimately the fault of the Clave continuing to fail but fight anyway to protect who they could in the mortal plane.

He woke up every single day with the knowledge that he and they were failing. That their numbers were only falling. That every shadowhunter he sent out to patrol might not return and every shadowhunter lost was one less weapon in the Nephilim arsenal against the demons.

That Valentine and the Circle had lost sight of that, killing Downworlders and their own rather than cleaving to their mission was disgusting to him.

“There’s no _way_ you’re leaving the Institute to go to a Downworld rave.” Alec interrupted the clipping-along pace of the others, turning and staring directly at Clary. “We know that it was _you_ the Circle members followed back to your house. That means they’re looking for you, know who you are, and know what you look like. Magnus’s reputation means that the Circle would have to be _idiots_ if they didn’t at least attempt to sneak in someone to try and take him out at the rave, dangling you _and_ a priceless necklace in front of them as well is asking for trouble.” 

“Magnus is the High Warlock, he must have done spells for thousands of people.” Jace pointed out the flaw in Alec’s determination to keep Clary safe – even against her own will – and also obey the Clave’s orders to watch her and find the Cup. He loved the push and pull of planning missions with Alec, it was something he missed whenever his brother got caught up in running the Institute, just like he lived to fight with his _parabatai_ at his side. They were bound, two sides of the same coin, and when they worked together everything just _worked_.

But when they didn’t?

Whoo boy, the fights were legendary with the running scorecard being an about even split between Alec’s soft-spot for Jace and his siblings moving him to listen to Jace just as much as Alec’s implacable and iron-hard grasp of the law and realism pushing back against Jace’s more impulsive and dangerous-in-hindsight ideas.

Alec took out his smartphone from his pocket and waggled it at Hodge and the girls who were all still gathered around the necklace Izzy was all-but-drooling over.

“That’s what technology is for.” He said, handing his phone over to Izzy – already unlocked – and then taking the necklace from Hodge, clasping it around Clary’s neck, the redhead catching onto his idea just as quickly as everyone else. “We may not be able to do more than send him a fire message remotely without his number – if High Warlocks even bother with cell phones – but hopefully he’ll give us enough of an opportunity to talk to look at a picture.”

“And if he doesn’t?” Clary asked, rolling her eyes then smiling into the camera as Alec pulled Jace in behind her, the two making a tall-runed-and-handsome backdrop against her red hair and the gleam of the necklace in their standard-shadowhunter-black gear. “What then?”

“Then,” Alec sighed, really not liking the idea. “We see if Stiles will be up for intervening on our behalf with him.” He took the necklace back and put it in the inside pocket of his jacket for safekeeping, one that needed his stele to open, and double checked the picture that Izzy took before nodding.

Jace grimaced as Hodge flinched at the mention of the vicious warlock. He _really_ didn’t like that idea which came through loud and clear on Alec’s end of their bond. Alec just arched a brow at him, Clary whispering to Izzy:

“You ever feel like you’re only getting half of a conversation around them?”

Izzy laughed softly, nudging the younger girl then pulling her away to help her pick out an outfit for the rave from Izzy’s massive closet of party clothes.

“Oh, you have _no_ idea.”

…

“Three go in, three come out.” The Lightwood/Wayland siblings promised each other as they did on every mission since Izzy had been cleared for field work at sixteen. It might seem a little cheesy, but it was _theirs_ and after a week filled with drama and fights and bullshit it felt _amazing_ to get back to center and just work a mission – even if that mission was _very_ much outside of Alec’s comfort zone.

Runes were activated before even leaving the Institute, Jace and Alec tracing over grey starting-to-fade or silver scars depending on how long it had been since they were used, Izzy’s being done by Hodge in the few places that were hard to reach. Most shadowhunters by sheer necessity learned to use a stele and draw runes with both hands, the same with weapons. _Not_ being able to hide or heal or escape from danger because they hurt one of their hands or what-have-you was not an acceptable reason for the children of Maryse Lightwood to fail on a mission or risk capture, even more so than the average shadowhunter.

As they were going into a Downworlder rave without mundanes around, they used Unseen runes on their skin and various weapon holsters rather than ones to hide them entirely, especially since it would rather defeat the purpose of their visit to the party if someone panicked because they dropped their invisibility runes to talk and the Downworlders saw their weapons.

With the Circle active again, shadowhunters showing up randomly in the middle of a rave and armed was asking for drama.

“You two find Magnus,” Alec ordered as he shifted the strap of his quiver in discomfort. He didn’t mind a bar or party every now and again for pleasure – but he tended to focus more on finding a cute pick-up and not on dancing or drinking. He got little enough free time, he wasn’t going to waste it when he got it. But a crowded room filled with people and one warlock in the mix with a bounty on his head?

It was a recipe for disaster and if it wouldn’t have caused an incident, Alec would’ve skipped the runaround and had Magnus come to the Institute for this meeting instead of having to keep it at least somewhat discrete because the Seelie Queen, according to Izzy’s information, felt like playing games.

“And Jace?” Alec added as the pair turned to mingle into the party in search of their target. He smirked as his brother turned with a questioning look on his face. “_Try_ not to piss off the warlock before he even listens to what Izzy has to say.”

Jace answered the – deserved, given as Jace tended to speak-or-punch first and ask later – teasing remark with an oh-so-mature roll of his eyes and sticking out his tongue at his party-crasher of a _parabatai_.

Not that Alec was still there to see it, the older shadowhunter already vanishing and if Jace had to bet on it, with the intention of watching everything from the highest point with the clearest view he could manage, even if Alec had to climb all the way up into the exposed rafters to find a spot that suited him to look out for trouble.

That was Alec’s way: going for the advantage before they even knew they needed one, thinking two or three steps ahead to prevent whatever worst-case scenario he was obsessing over.

Jace would rather wade in with fists and sword and let it all come out in the wash…which was probably why they’d been paired together as children with the possibility of becoming – as they did in their teens – _parabatai_ in the first place, the elder Lightwoods counting on Jace’s go-getter attitude to shake Alec out of his tendency to fall into planning ruts to cover every contingency and Alec’s, at times extreme, adherence to logic and practicality balanced by Jace’s more laid-back personality.

They were equalizers, partners, and when in sync on a battlefield or in the sparring ring able to defeat any challenge thrown at them but make no mistake: even separate they were some of the best warriors the Clave had and there were parts of their lives where their _parabatai_ bond took second place. Alec’s duty to lead the Institute. Each of their _personal_ pursuits. And so on.

Following Alec’s orders, Jace and Izzy stuck together and maneuvered through the press of bodies, thanks to their runes drawing no more attention than any attractive pair of people would have, both of them wearing wicked grins on their faces from the blatant once-overs and requests to dance they’d fielded before they finally spotted their target.

Holding court in a bit of a conversation-pit type area that was somewhat removed from the rest of the rave, Magnus Bane sat in all his sartorial splendor, long-undercut black hair styled up into a pompadour with red highlights matching the silk shirt under his gilt-edged black jacket. True to his pictures, Magnus was both handsome and charismatic, drawing eyes – even theirs with their training to ignore that sort of thing in the field – from across the room, with jewelry glinting in the lighting of the rave and flawless makeup perfectly on-point. With a drink in his hand and a pair of beauties on each side, Magnus was the very picture of hedonism.

And, thinking of Clary’s stressed out and worried face, complete with tears, it made Jace see _red_ and probably would’ve made him do something stupid – like try and posture or provoke the warlock whose help they very much needed.

Which would be why Alec partnered him with Izzy, who when his chested puffed a little in warning and he started forward, clamped down on his arm with a grip as tight and iron-hard as her seraph blade, warning flashing in her dark eyes when he turned to look at her.

Rolling his own, nodded in wordless acknowledgement of the reminder to keep his head on straight, then turned back and the pair made their way over for their “audience” – really with the way Bane was holding court, it certainly felt like they were being deigned to – with one of the most powerful people in New York City.

…

Magnus was filled with mixed emotions.

First, last night he received an impertinent request for a meeting from a shadowhunter from the New York Institute in direct contradiction of the ongoing prohibition, which he would have all-too-cheerfully ignored if it weren’t for the mention of regaining his _Amor_ necklace for providing a possible service to the Clave.

Now, as the wards weren’t due to be updated on the Institute for their yearly maintenance for some time and they hadn’t been attacked recently either, he was a bit flummoxed – and intrigued – over what the Institute thought valuable enough to contract his services during the prohibition.

Really it could only be one thing: the Mortal Cup, or something to do regarding it, and honestly he was iffy on whether he even wanted the Clave to reclaim their penultimate weapon or not but…

_Necklace_.

Then he had to spend the day at the meeting table with a cluster of personalities that, frankly, made him want to set either them or _himself_ on fire on a good day, let alone during such a fraught time as Accords negotiations. They were due for another round within the year regardless, but having his schedule upended because the Seelie Queen decided to be a brat was _not_ his idea of fun. No matter how much he enjoyed sticking it to the Clave Council, he didn’t like having his hand forced. And by refusing Seelie help to the Clave until the Accords were redrawn, she had put the rest of the Downworlders into a tenuous position where they either had to go along with her latest scheme or break ranks and anger one of the more powerful races of the Shadow World.

Not a position he enjoyed – and Magnus was never one afraid to try a new position or twelve, if the incentive was right.

Still, there had to be something said for how shocked, then flustered, then outraged, then worried, then finally settling into resigned annoyance when during the first meeting with the Clave Council they’d had a surprise addition – the First Ambassador of the Fae, Second Prince of the Unseelie, Prince Ailill of the Fallen himself had shown up without warning.

Watching as every time Etaín threated to throw a fit or overstep herself or otherwise behave in a manner unbecoming of a Queen of her age and supposed power shrink back and hold her tongue at a single _look_ from Ailill…well. It was the sort of thing to fill him with schadenfreude. Given that Ailill was the oldest being not only in the room but currently in the _entire dimension_ unless his older brother or father showed up or a Greater Demon of the Fallen decided to escape Pandemonium, the dimension not Magnus’s club, or Edom or another demonic plane and was an ancient warrior before the First Fall, let alone Etaín’s birth as one of the first Seelie, Magnus actually understood why a creature normally so arrogant and secure in her power as Etaín quailed at the thought of pissing off her own ruler’s younger brother and king’s second son.

Lucifer was far too busy, generally speaking, to bother with their little corner of the multiverse, leaving managing the Fae to his oldest son who’d followed him in the Fall, and Gwrtheryn’s own duties overseeing the Fae as a whole tended to keep him away as well, so when the Unseelie felt like _reminding_ everyone of the Shadow World who was _actually_ the biggest, baddest, and most powerful race alive outside of the Heavenly Realms, it was left up to Ailill to deliver the message – and if needed, smack-down.

He’d taken a moment after leaving the negotiations – once more with a migraine, fuck _Imogen Herondale_ anyway and her not-even-hidden bigotry and bigoted agenda – to have a drink and snap himself into an outfit appropriate for a party, feeling an uptick in his mood at getting a chance to play.

At least until the Shadowhunters find him anyway.

His meeting with Ragnor’s friend had been swift, and Stiles stood by his enigmatic reputation in a hooded and concealing ensemble that showed zero skin and only allowed the shapely mouth and perfect skin of his lower jaw to be seen along with the golden glow of his irises to pierce through the shadows of the hood. If it weren’t for the mouth, Magnus would guess that Stiles’s Mark was particularly disfiguring. But that mouth had been lush and curved and shapely, the sort of feature that made Magnus think all sorts of dirty thoughts, but alas: duty called and Magnus had handed over the pendant that would allow Stiles to come-and-go through the safe haven wards on the retreats Magnus had created for his people in case of dire times. The sight of him wasn’t likely to comfort some. But the strong aura of magic he gave off _would_ help those that weren’t put off by his menacing appearance, even before his reputation for killing Circle members was brought into the matter.

_“Il chasse ceux qui nous chassent.”_ Is what they said about Stiles. _He hunts those who hunt us._

Where Magnus was a beacon of strength and safety that their people loved to cling to, _Stiles_ – whatever his true name – was the one they looked to for vengeance and righting of wrongs.

Very _Dark Knight_ of him in Magnus’s opinion, and thankfully limited to the Circle as far as anyone could prove, or they’d have a whole new issue on their hands.

So it was with drink in hand and a flirtatious pair of Seelie rubbing up against him – sent by their Queen almost without a doubt in a far-too-transparent attempt to sway him, she truly must be feeling the pressure of having Ailill around and watching her every move like a hawk circling a plump little dove (a rather fitting analogy given Ailill’s lustrous chestnut and copper wings) – that he watched and waited for the Shadowhunters to make their move.

After all, while he was rather infamous, he had not the slightest clue of whom he was meeting beyond a name and if the Nephilim had any sense at all – he wasn’t holding his breath – they would cover their rune marks in this sort of company and the current air in the Downworld concerning their kind.

It didn’t take long – certainly not long enough for Magnus to truly submerge himself in the temptations on offer – for a pair of fighters to make their way over to him with purpose in every step. Even without runes on show, they both were built with strength lining their bodies and moved with a grace inherent in a people who were trained to fight since they took their first steps. Magnus would imagine that the brunette in particular would be something to see on either a battlefield or a dancefloor with her stunning beauty and attention-grabbing style.

But the blond…the blond puzzled him.

Magnus had been around a _long_ time and had more dealings with Shadowhunters than any other warlock alive, even his dear friend Tessa who was half-Shadowhunter and one of the warlocks who lived and studied at the Spiral Labyrinth. He knew them. Knew how they worked, had watched as their society developed or stagnated since he was made aware of them as a young boy in the Far East.

Some lines in particular tended to breed true, for instance that girl was the spitting image of a Trueblood, and given that she was in New York, he’d bet good money or magic that she was the only daughter – that he knew of – of Maryse Trueblood and Robert Lightwood.

The blond however…

Magnus’s meeting was supposed to be with one Jace Wayland, who Magnus knew was the only surviving member of the Wayland family, but…if _that_ boy was supposed to be Michael Wayland’s son than either he wasn’t who he said he was _at all_ or Michael Wayland had had an affair with some random Herondale because _that_ boy was the spitting image of Magnus’s dear, and deceased, friend Will Herondale, dear Tessa’s late husband.

Hmm, interesting.

Consider him intrigued.

He did _so_ love a good Nephilim scandal.

Still, it would have to wait for another day as the blond was talking, blah blah, Clary Fray, blah.

Then he was showing him a picture – or rather lovely Isabelle was on her phone – and Magnus’s wandering attention was captured once more, though not _only_ by the lovely girl Clarissa Fairchild had grown up to be, she was quite the image of her mother at her age, or his jewel, but also by what lingered in the background: a tall drink of water that could only be the lovely Isabelle’s brother, and Magnus had to say: he wore the mix of Trueblood coloring and Lightwood bones to _gorgeous_ effect.

But seeing he was distracted, danger crept up from behind in the form of a Circle assassin with a bared blade, a danger Magnus was deaf and blind to until the hiss of an arrow passing him by close enough for the breeze it made to caress his skin alerted him along with the cut-off cry of the assassin as the arrow struck true right through the man’s heart.

The identity of the archer wasn’t long in question, within a moment as Jace darted passed Magnus to investigate the hall behind the downed-assassin another Shadowhunter landed with a cat-like grace Magnus couldn’t help but enjoy, cloaking runes canceled and showing the lovely Isabelle’s lovely brother in all his tossled-curl glory. Magnus felt something flutter in excitement, lips parting as the man strode passed him and checked the body he’d struck down without hesitation, picking up the seraph blade in the form of a knife and flipping it in hand just as Jace returned – and with company.

“Who are _you_?” Magnus couldn’t help but ask, even if he was starting to get a good idea. One that, to his own surprise, wasn’t as off-putting as he frankly thought it should be. Oh well. He was an immortal warlock and caution while keeping him alive at times grew tedious. He’d weathered worse storms than whatever dastardly punishment Maryse Lightwood might think up for him daring to _sully_ her precious heir with his demon-tainted affections.

If, that was, the Lightwood heir was even interested in being tainted.

_Enthusiastic consent_ was Magnus’s ultimate kink, if his partner wasn’t truly into whatever it might be from flirting on up to, well, whatever their minds might devise, it wasn’t what Magnus desired.

“Circle member, Valentine’s found us already.” Alec said the obvious, even as he had a hard time dragging his eyes away from the glittering form of Magnus Bane who drew him in like a lodestone, turning his head to look at Jace and Stiles who’d followed his _parabatai_ back into the club despite none of them knowing he was even around.

“There was another waiting outside,” Jace reported in turn. “Stiles took care of him before I even got there.”

“Stiles did, hmm?” Magnus hummed under his breath, arching a brow at the reduced amount of coverage on the other warlock that was providing them all with a delightful amount of skin on display in the form of exquisitely muscled arms. Why, with _two_ such interesting forms of masculine vitality before him, Magnus didn’t quite know where to feast his eyes first, though Lightwood tended to win as Stiles was still stubbornly hooded. “The Lair?”

“Still protected.” Stiles held in the urge to roll his eyes only because he knew that Magnus truly did care about his people. It came through loud and clear earlier the first – and previously only – time they’d met. “I set up proximity wards linked to the Circle rune thanks to my recent hunting activities.” He told the older warlock. “They’ll ping the main wards around any of the safe havens and inform both of us of an encroachment and coming attack.”

“Clever,” Magnus had to smile at that. “Ragnor wasn’t being overly proud of his protégé at all when he recommended you, Stiles. But,” he waved his hands with a bit of a flourish. “If Valentine has found us already we cannot linger. Shall we,” he arched a brow at the shadowhunters. “We can discuss the Institute’s request elsewhere, if you are truly interested in returning what is mine for my help?”

The Shadowhunters nodded, following Magnus through the portal, even as Stiles sighed and gave into the desire to roll his eyes.

So much for keeping his distance.

Something told him that Magnus wasn’t going to allow him to – or the Shadowhunters for that matter – now that all knew he was involved in one way or another.

Stiles didn’t kid himself: Magnus had picked up on his familiarity with the shadowhunters.

It was only the desire to protect another warlock _as well as_ keep the information as close as possible with Valentine’s return that kept him from interrogating Stiles on the spot.

After all: New York was Magnus’s, no matter what he said about only being the High Warlock of Brooklyn.

As long as Stiles lived there – and now that Magnus knew of him – he was answerable to the other.

Whether he liked it or, realistically, _not_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For more information about my stories (fanfic and original) find me on Facebook at: https://www.facebook.com/sif.shadowheart
> 
> Or follow me on Twitter: https://twitter.com/AbramsSif


	6. Chapter 6

** Hunter’s Bane **

**Chapter Six: Demon Summoning for Dummies, er, Shadowhunters**

“Well, that’s much better.” Magnus decided as he stepped out onto the sealed concrete floor of one of his more obscure hidey-holes in the New York metropolitan area. 

An empty warehouse split into a main “consult” area, a ritual room, and a washroom, it was specifically set aside for clients or to use magics that he – frankly – didn’t want anywhere _near_ his normal haunts for one reason or another and warded to the rafters and beyond. Warding that held them snug and safe from anything getting in – or, considering the subject at hand, _getting out_. He turned with a whirl as the portal snapped closed behind Stiles with a wave of the younger (Magnus was assuming based on him being Ragnor’s protégé, though he could be wrong) warlock’s hand.

He’d noticed that about Stiles when he’d met him before.

Where Ragnor was lackadaisical with his motions, every inch the indolent country gentleman, and Magnus tended towards flourishes that – or so he’s been told – were both eye-catching and dancer-like, Stiles was economical in his grace.

A fighter from birth, just like the shadowhunters, and it showed in both cases in everything they did when they weren’t undergoing the effort it took to hide such ingrained habits.

It made Magnus quite curious – as many things did it seemed in the last week or two, which happened at times: sudden bursts of action and _go go go_ after weeks or even years of ennui – as to Stiles’s actual origins.

A fact like much else about the man that was intentionally shaded in much mystery – though who it was meant to protect was also a secret worth uncovering.

“Normally, I don’t mind a bit of _filth_,” he eyed up the Lightwood male, not even pretending to have anything coming close to chill around someone that beautiful. Especially someone that beautiful who entered his life by _saving_ it. “But the Circle is a brand of it I just cannot abide.” He smiled charmingly at the Lightwood, offering his hand. “I don’t believe we’ve been formally introduced. I’m Magnus Bane.”

“Alec,” ignoring the _looks_ from his siblings as he felt a bit dazed at having the full force of Magnus’s personality he took the warlock’s offered hand, shaking it slowly. “Alec Lightwood.” He snapped out of it as Izzy failed to hold in a little laugh. “This is my sister Isabelle, and you’ve already met Jace…” He trailed off, looking between the two warlocks in question as from what he’d caught between the two at the rave they _seemed_ to know each other but he wasn’t sure if they _knew_ each other.

And…he wasn’t making much sense, even to himself.

Great.

Well, now he knew what happened when he skipped his usual Wednesday night – the _only_ time of the week that he had more than an hour to himself with any regularity – troll for stress relief.

Apparently, the answer was find himself flustered over two warlocks in one week.

His mother would have _kittens_...if she ever found out about it anyway.

Thankfully even with an organization as intrusive as the Clave was notorious for being, the inside of his own head was still safe as long as he didn't end up on the wrong side of the Soul Sword.

“Ah, yes.” Magnus nodded, a snap of his fingers having the sconces in the concrete block walls flare brightly and the dust dissipate in the rooms of the warehouse, though the large windowpanes remained blacked over. “Stiles and I are new acquaintances, though I was unaware he had any connections to the Institute.”

The mild observation was nothing less than a demand for an explanation from the High Warlock – and this time Stiles _did_ give into the desire to roll his eyes as with a snap of his own fingers he banished his sleeveless hooded vest glamor, rather enjoying the _appreciative_ glances that got him from his audience, even if it was a bit amused on the part of Isabelle and grudging on that of Jace.

“A three degrees of separation situation coming into play to bite me in the ass,” Stiles drawled, crossing his arms over his bare chest. He didn’t wear shirts for the first thirty-plus years of his life, he saw no need for them now. “Derek Hale, Lucian Greymark – or Luke Garroway, whatever he’s calling himself now, and then to Clarissa Fairchild.” He sighed. “I was at Pandemonium when the block on her sight decided to fail in rather spectacular manner and was checking on her when she was attacked by a Ravener demon at the Fray residence. She’s been with the Nephilim ever since as far as I’m aware.”

Magnus nodded accepting that, spinning a bit and ready to move on, only for one of the shadowhunters – the pretty one, so he’d allow it – to interrupt him.

“Wait, _Hale_?” Alec asked, taken aback. “As in the Hale _Pack_?”

His incredulity was understandable, in Magnus’s opinion. Wolf shifters were _notoriously_ isolationist and exclusionary to the point that even the Clave could take lessons from them, that one of their pack would make friends with another species might seem strange. However, when one was a warlock and immortal, one _did_ tend to make interesting and at times _odd_ friends.

Case in point: Magnus’s often side-eyed association with the Shadowhunters, which was often accepted with ill-grace by others of his kind, if only because they had a “better him than us” mentality regarding it or Stiles’s apparent friendship with shifter royalty alá the Hales.

Stiles’s smirk said that he was _definitely_ enjoying discomfiting the shadowhunters, who were to a one perturbed about this revelation, and Magnus held in a sigh in preference for moving things along.

He still had to be back at the negotiating table in morning after all: time was fleeting for him to reclaim what was his and perhaps help the Fairchild girl do the same.

“You realize, of course.” He told them firmly. “That I cannot discuss the matter without Clarissa’s presence _and_ that I will need to verify the authenticity of my necklace.”

“Fine.” Jace bit out after a stern _look_ from both his siblings. He motioned for Alec to show the warlock the necklace, keeping up the act of being in charge of the mission as neither warlock needed to know otherwise. In the back of his mind, though he wasn’t actively aware of it, counting on Stiles to hopefully keep the other warlock from running once he had it, even if his amused position leaning against the wall, one ankle crossed over the other and his arms over his pale – if ripped with muscle – chest said that he was just there for the show. “Show him.”

Unsealing his pocket with his stele and a rune that the others couldn’t quite track – a habit ingrained from _years_ of lectures on safety and Clave secrets at his father’s knee – Alec palmed the necklace and then held it out to Magnus with the chain threaded through his fingers.

With an expression the others couldn’t quite decipher, Magnus slowly reached out at the sight of that flawless ruby and felt with his magic for the enchantments he set into the gem himself.

_“Amor verus numquam moritur,”_ he murmured in an instant almost filled to brimming with nostalgia as he touched the filigree cage around the ruby and saw the engraving. “True love never dies,” he translated, snapping out of it a moment later at the flicker of confusion on the faces of the thus-far delightful Isabelle and far-less-wonderful maybe-not-Wayland boy. As he’d expect for someone mentored by his dear little cabbage Ragnor, Stiles appeared not to need any help with the Latin, and as a Nephilim heir, nor was he surprised that Alec was _un_surprised by his translation.

Though it was almost painful to do so, he let the necklace go, watching as it was tucked back away with eyes that found it difficult to tear away from that mesmerizing ruby.

If he’d been there for Hodge’s briefing, he would’ve readily agreed: “he _had_ longed to reunite with that necklace” or at least the jewel it contained.

“Well,” he clapped his hands together, power washing out over the bare-bones of the warehouse and reinforcing the wards with yet another layer since he knew full-well what he was going to have to do for the Institute to return his property. “Now that that’s out of the way: where’s Clarissa?”

Jace and Alec traded a look, having a conversation that no one else was privy to, which Izzy quickly tired of and told them: “She’s confined to the Institute or the company of anyone approved by the Head of the Institute per the order of the Clave.”

Stiles lifted his brows at that, letting out a little whistle while Magnus was visibly taken aback, Alec and Jace _gracing_ her with twin appalled looks.

“What?” She snapped, just completely _over_ it. All of it. Alec’s clinging to the Clave orders. Jace’s overprotectiveness one minute and then following Alec’s orders like a good soldier the next and then rebellious _do what I want_ attitude the next. Clary’s teary focus on her mother before switching over to sending heart-eyes at Jace. Just _all of it_. “It’s not like we were going to be able to _hide_ that she can’t go anywhere without Alec, especially since he’s going to have to go get her to have her memory block taken down or whatever has to happen. The only reason you were delaying was because they’re warlocks.” And she _hated_ that part of her brothers. The part ground in from birth by their parents and the Clave that said everyone but the Nephilim was _less_. Were only good enough to be _used_ whenever the Clave required it.

It was disgusting and nothing hurt her or made her angrier faster than seeing that same crap from the two shadowhunters who had always had her back and supported her when others thought that a female Nephilim should focus on scholarship and diplomacy rather than becoming an active shadowhunter.

“Okayyy then.” Stiles dragged out the word. That was interesting but he wasn’t inclined to get involved in anymore Shadowhunter drama – especially _not_ family or siblings dynamics, he’s lived through his own, no _thank-you-ma’am_ – except what was absolutely necessary for tracking and killing Valentine and his fanatics. “I’m assuming that I’ll be portaling to the Institute then to pick up Ms. Clary and bringing her back with Alec?”

Since he was the less notable of the two of them it made sense.

Stiles might be just as high on Valentine’s kill list as Magnus, but he made less of a spectacle of himself – off the battlefield anyway – and was exponentially harder to find, hunt, or track than the socialite High Warlock of Brooklyn.

“Please, do.” Magnus pinched the bridge of his nose between two beringed fingers. He even tossed up a portal with an absent flick of his free hand, running down the list of things in his head he’d need for summoning Valak, not that the others _knew_ that that was what they were going to have to do, but still. Given the looks and hissed whispers between the siblings, at least _one_ of them needed removing before they fell into a full-on spat.

If Valak was going to be summoned and they wanted to avoid a Circle attack, then his wards needed to be at full strength…which they might not be if Shadowhunters turned their family squabble physical and Isabelle launched one of her brothers at a wall.

_Shadowhunter_ strength truly was something to be seen, even when they didn’t have those runes of theirs activated.

…

“You know,” Stiles pointed out, mouth curving when Alec blinked and looked over at him with his big doe eyes. Killers indoctrinated from birth should _not_ be as adorable as Alec Lightwood. There should be a karmic law or something. _Hot_, sure. Sexy, definitely. But…_cute_? Adorable? It wasn’t fair. “Magnus is going to get his priceless ruby necklace back for his help and here I am, jumping in for the second time, and not even a cheap bracelet from Claire’s to show for it.”

Alec blinked, frowning softly. “What’s Claire’s?”

Stiles whistled softly in surprise. “That would be a negative on the popular culture references, good to know. But if you think I’m going to start offering up my magic and help _for free_ every time the Institute has an issue or Jace runs into trouble…”

“I-, no, of course.” Alec blushed, feeling a blip of shame that everyone had just…_assumed_ that Stiles was going to stick around and help them when Magnus was getting paid – handsomely at that – and for a ritual or whatever that might not even get them the outcome the Clave desired: the Mortal Cup. “I wouldn’t take advantage like that.” He said, resolve firming. “And I won’t let the others.”

Even though it was Magnus who’d agreed with Stiles going with to portal Alec and Clary back to the hideout for the whatever-it-would-be to unlock her memories, it _was_ on behalf of the Clave.

“Don’t worry about it,” Stiles chuckled, waving it off now that he’d made his point clear. He wasn’t going to be their beck-and-call warlock. His presence at the rave had everything to do with his thinning of the Circle herd and nothing at all with the Clave until it did. “I don’t have a soft enough heart _or_ disposition to allow myself to be taken advantage of. Merely making a point.”

“Consider it noted.” Alec promised. “I’ll make sure the balance is cleared, though,” he winced. “With the prohibition that might be a little tricky. What Magnus wanted is technically Lightwood property, or maybe even the London Institute, it’s all a little shady and light on details. That’s different than authorizing a funds transfer during a prohibition on working with downworlders.”

“Like I said,” Stiles reiterated. “Don’t worry about it.” Catching sight of Alec’s frown that had shades of kicked puppy, he offered an alternative. “Well, if you’re going to take it like _that_,” he wrinkled his nose. “A favor for a favor?” He rushed to explain when Alec almost reared away from him in instinctive response at the very idea.

Smart man.

Giving a warlock an open-ended favor _never_ worked out in the favor of the one offering.

Good to see one of the little group of shadowhunters had a sense of self-preservation.

“Calm down,” Stiles snorted a short laugh as they approached the Institute back entrance Alec had steered them unerringly towards rather than risk the hoopla that might occur at the front. “Nothing that would break the Accords or Covenant Law, my word as a warlock.”

“That sounds…fair.” Alec decided slowly, thinking even as he spoke. “Alright,” he decided, given the terms that it wasn’t outrageous and with the Accords Summit in less than two weeks, it wasn’t likely that he was going to rack up an obscene amount of favors owed before the prohibition lifts and he can go back to paying for magical services from the Institute’s budget. “Agreed. A favor for a favor, starting with helping with whatever will be required to regain Clary’s memory.”

Stiles smiled. He did enjoy someone who saw the loopholes and traps coming. Otherwise life would be so _dull_ if everyone fell for his bullshit every single time.

It was refreshing.

Like the mottled mint in a mojito.

“Then we have an accord.” Stiles was a _bit_ more entertained with himself than he probably should be for that one, he’d admit. But the _look_ and salty eyeroll Alec gave him in return was worth it.

Though if Alec could stop being adorable and go back to being a stuffed-shirt shadowhunter it would be a _lot_ easier for Stiles to go back to keeping his distance from him.

Somehow, when he smiled all small and crooked and _genuine_, it made remembering his family name – and all the atrocities committed in that name – far too hard for Stiles to recall.

Damnit.

…

Back at the hideout, Magnus was asking Isabelle a _most important_ question:

“_About Alec…is he more of a flower or a cologne man…?”_

…

Magnus restrained a desire to laugh that the twin expressions of annoyance Stiles and Alec wore as they came through the former’s portal into the warehouse, Magnus having altered the wards so that Stiles could do so easily rather than having to punch through and risk shattering them altogether.

While he’d yet to feel the other warlock’s magic unrestrained, all warlocks of sufficient age or power gave off a certain aura that others who were sensitive – or had taught themselves to notice – could feel. The late Aldous Nix was an excellent example, over a thousand years old and as powerful as a warlock not born of a Greater Demon could be, many younger warlocks had described being around the ancient being as “oppressive” or “suffocating” where Magnus merely felt an impression of great age, a gravitas instead, due to his own power. Magnus knew from various friends and lovers over the years, that his tended towards warmth that went burning when he was angered and was nearly intolerable for others to be around when enraged. And Stiles…well. Were Magnus a less powerful warlock, he was relatively certain he would find being around Stiles rather bracing from the distinct _chill_ he emanated.

Auras could be quite telling, Magnus knew, though only he and his closest friends knew why his own heat was so apt, most passing it off as a counterpoint to his rather infamous bonhomie.

As it applied to Stiles’s ice however, he’d be willing to bet from what little he knew of the other warlock that it had less to do with his origins – though he wouldn’t entirely discount it as shaded as they were and are – and more to do with personality in counterpoint to Magnus’s. Stiles was _sharp_. Hard and cutting in a way that spoke of great pain and great grudges combined with an intelligence almost entirely devoid of moral scruples.

When Shadow World history spoke of Stiles’s tearing through the Circle like a razor through tissue, the left out the part about how merciless he’d done so. No one had been safe from him if they possessed that rune. No one. Man, woman, young just-runed, or old, Stiles tore through them all. He took no prisoners and gave no quarter.

Perhaps it was Magnus’s age showing, the perspective of seeing civilizations rise and fall, but he mourned for whatever had been done to Stiles that had made him that way and taught him that lesson.

_Mercy_ after all was the privilege of the trusting and victorious.

To fight utterly without it said a lot about the trials Stiles had faced and the warlock that had been shaped by them as a result.

Which, given that the current enemy Stiles was fighting was Valentine, may actually be more appropriate than the Clave or softer-hearted Downworlders might like to admit.

Clarissa Fairchild with her flaming copper hair charged forward as soon as she was out of the portal and confronted Magnus, ignoring the others in favor of her goal…though interesting to see, or rather _not_ see, Magnus didn’t spy a single rune on her skin bared by the t-shirt and jeans she wore.

Then he clocked the bracelet.

Well, well, he arched a brow. It seemed _Alexander_ was keeping a tighter leash Clarissa than had even been implied by the lovely Isabelle’s little rant. Wise of him, if Clarissa was _anything_ like either of her parents.

“You’re the one who blocked my memories?!” She demanded to know, not a single ounce of _asking_ in her tone or body.

“Ah ah ah,” he shook a finger at her which also served to halt her in her tracks. He might have a bit of a soft-spot for the girl after seeing her off-and-on over the years to reinforce the magic at hand, but he wouldn’t allow her to disrespect him either, especially in front of three shadowhunters and one of his own people. _Image_ was everything when it came to Downworld leaders, and it never mattered more than during treaty negotiations, even if all of this was _supposedly_ a matter of utmost discretion. “Tone, my dear. I did as I was tasked by your mother and with her full consent and permission. Your Sight and memories of the Shadow World were blocked, yes.” He sighed, pretending to flick away a bit of lint on his jacket. “However, your mind has always been _particularly_ stubborn. After a time it became clear blocking you was no longer feasible as a long-term strategy.” He waved a hand. “Those memories which your mother was _most_ concerned with were removed altogether.”

“That explains the memory fragments,” Jace nodded, folding his arms over his chest. “With the blocks wearing down or breaking altogether, your mind is looking for what it knows should be there but isn’t.”

“How much time are we talking about?” Alec asked, seeing that Clary was literally speechless at the revelation of just _what_ had been done to her without her consent and all on her mother’s behalf. 

Not that he could blame her. The worst his mother ever did was attempt to shop him out for an “appropriate” marriage to form an alliance with another shadowhunter family and he responded by _publicly_ outing himself in front of half the Clave during the “friendly” competition Idris hosted every five years to show off the best and brightest of their people. Poor Mark Blackthorn. To this day he still got teased by Izzy whenever he had to see Alec for Clave business, but at least the part-Seelie shadowhunter had already been known as bisexual, so there was that. At least it hadn’t been someone like Jace, who was more opportunistic than a strict adherent regarding sexuality. Mark had laughed off being kissed as a bit of a “conqueror’s spoils” thing after Alec won the final spar of the competition and was riding high on adrenaline and rebellion.

He _had_ been only sixteen after all, and Mark as a few years older and wiser had taken it as a compliment, even if his sister Helen never intended to let him live it down anymore than Izzy would Alec.

Magnus pursed his lips, thinking, then estimated: “six months in total, as a generous estimate.”

Stiles let out one of his short whistles at that. Six months wasn’t anything for warlocks, little more than a blink of an eyes against the sum of their immortal lives. But for a teenager? Six months might as well be a lifetime.

“Then give them _back_.” Clary demanded again, eyes wide and imploring. “They’re my memories and I want them back. I need them if I have any hope of finding my mother.”

“I _am_ sympathetic to your situation my dear.” Magnus assured her. “Never think I’m not. However, it’s not as simple as simply _giving them back_. If whatever they held was dangerous enough for _Jocelyn Fairchild_ to risk having ongoing contact with the High Warlock of Brooklyn to remove memories from you _repeatedly_ and have me reinforce the block on your Sight as well as fashion one to cover the memory removal…well.” He flicked his wrist. “They were _hardly_ the sort of thing I was just going to keep laying around now are they?”

“What’d you do with them?” Jace asked even as Stiles let out a low groan, having a decent idea – and even agreeing, in principle.

It was how convoluted it made reclaiming them that was the problem.

_Fucking _damn it, Stiles let out a mental curse as Magnus filled in the others of the logistics involved in feeding memories to a demon for safekeeping.

“So how do we summon this demon?” Clary asked once all the inevitable bickering had faded away.

“Are you certain?” Magnus asked, watching her closely. “Summoning such a powerful demon _could_ be lethal.”

“I’ll do anything to save my mother.” She declared. “Where’s the demon?”

“Okay,” Magnus agreed. “We’ll need three others to make the circle. Pretty boy, get your team ready.”

Jace scoffed, staring forward. “I know what to do.”

Magnus rolled his eyes, pressing his hand against blondie’s chest and pushing him back. “I’m not talking to you.” He turned and smiled, pointing at Alec. “I’m talking to _you_.”

Flustered, and ignoring the confused look Jace short him, Alec just shrugged with a smile as Magnus led Clary into the ritual room and gave her the supplies she’d need for drawing the summoning circle.

Alec looked over at Stiles in question, the younger warlock nodding, then looked at Jace.

“Yeah, we’re _parabatai_, of course.” Jace agreed immediately then went to Magnus and Clary at the warlock’s summons.

“And what about me?” Izzy asked, arching an imperious brow. “What am I supposed to do, _knit_?”

“Keep an eye on the wards.” Stiles answered before the siblings could get into a spat. He didn’t know what was up with the family tension, but it was roiling under the surface even worse than the other day. He couldn’t remember being like this with his sister, but then that was a much different time and an entirely different culture. Shadowhunters had never struck him as being particularly warm and fuzzy, that the Lightwoods seem to maintain familial bonds at all was actually rather admirable even if they did like to snipe and snark. “Depending on the strength of the demon, most if not all of our focus is going to be taken up by keeping it contained. If the wards flicker, it _may_ draw attention or an attack.”

“How dangerous is this demon?” Alec asked, frowning. “I know what Magnus said but _any_ demon could be lethal in the right situation.”

“If it is who I think it is?” Stiles shrugged. “Not really a problem for Magnus, especially bolstered by a circle including _parabatai_ and another warlock. The key will be maintaining the circle barrier. It will try and trick our minds, convince us to break it and set it free. As long as we don’t fall for it,” he tilted his head in a _yeah, not really_ motion. “Not a problem.”

“Good to know.” Alec decided. “What if it’s not who you think it is?”

“Then all of this is just for show and Magnus could solo it with one hand tied behind his back.” Stiles grinned at their surprised expression. “He _is_ the High Warlock of Brooklyn after all. Don’t be fooled by the window dressing: he was power to spare for _days_ let alone a piddling demonic summoning.”

“Which do you think it is?” Alec asked. “The powerful demon or the show?”

“Given that whatever is hiding in Clary’s memories might not be unlike having the nuke codes?” Stiles ignored that the Lightwoods exchanged confused glances at the reference. _Shadowhunters_. The way the Clave isolates them really doesn’t do them any favors in Stiles’s opinion. “If he’s smart it’s the former and given his reputed age, he _has_ to be intelligent. Warlocks don’t live very long otherwise, especially back in the _good old days_.”

…

“_Excellent _work,” Magnus approved of the sigil Clary drew on the ritual room’s floor using his enchanted chalks. “Jocelyn was right. Your artistry is beyond compare.”

“I don’t know about that,” Clary blushed a little as the others followed the warlock into the room.

The shadowhunters had been speaking in low tones, going over contingencies or just snarking at each other from what Magnus could tell, while he and Stiles danced very _carefully_ around the fact that they were helping the Clave against the wishes of the Downworld leaders, including Magnus himself.

“Oh, my dear.” Magnus smiled at her as he walked around to his point of the pentagram contained within the sigil’s circle. “The last person I knew who drew so well was Michelangelo…who was _excellent_ in bed I might add.”

He winked over at Alec, getting the tallest shadowhunter another of those incredulous _looks_ from his blond _parabatai_. Hmm. Someone was feeling territorial, even though there was zero sign of there being a sexual component to their bond. Interesting. Shadowhunters were always such fascinating blends of neuroses.

Stiles almost coughed on his snicker as Isabelle grinned wickedly, shooting glances that promised _all_ kinds of teasing for her big brother later as she took up her guard position at the entrance to the room as the others took their places around the circle, Jace guiding Clary to stand between Alec and Stiles – which pleased precisely _none_ of them. The blond in turn stood between the two warlocks, with his _parabatai_ between Clary and Magnus, balancing the five-point circle as well as could be done with _parabatai_, two powerful warlocks, and an – as Alec loved to point out – a might-as-well-be-mundane untrained Nephilim in the picture. Not the most _balanced_ circle Stiles had ever seen, to say the least, but a powerful one nonetheless.

“We are going to initiate a bond.” Magnus talked the young ones through the summoning, trusting that Ragnor – while he didn’t tend to use such magics – hadn’t neglected any areas when training his protégé. “Once the bond is formed, it cannot be broken for any reason until the demon retreats.” Magnus warned. “No matter _what_ happens. We must not let go of each other’s hands.”

The others nodded, Magnus staring them down with none of his usual flamboyance, then slowly lifted his hand and offered it to Alec on his left.

Alec took it and felt something almost _snap_ into place, Izzy watching all of them nearly jump – except for Stiles and Magnus who were both cool as could be – as they linked hands and the air grew heavy and almost seemed to whisper around them.

“I will lead the ceremony,” Magnus continued once the circle and bond was formed. “And you all must do _exactly_ as I say. The demon’s name is _Valak_, and at some point he will ask for payment for Clary’s memories.”

“What do you mean?” Jace asked, troubled. “What kind of _payment_?”

“We will see.” Magnus smiled. “Let us begin.”

What came next none of the non-warlocks followed, the language strange to them save for Stiles, at least until the sigil lit up like a strobe light and a tornado of whirling black smoke that _spewed_ malice whipped through the air but was trapped inside the circle from ceiling to floor.

“It is time.” Magnus raised his voice to be heard over the clamor of the demon, the sound almost deafening. “Valak is here and demands payment,” he reported from the – he couldn’t quite call it a conversation but that was the best word he had for the exchange in English – conversation he carried on mentally with the demon.

“What does he want?” Alec called out.

A pause then: “We must each relinquish a beloved memory of the one we love the most.”

Stiles snarled low and vicious under his breath, a crack of lightening crashing through the whirling cloud of, well, _Valak_ letting out an eardrum-piercing shriek in response.

Magnus blinked, surprised but perhaps not as much as he should be as the demon suddenly changed his price.

“Correction,” he said drily. “It requires _any_ memory of the one we love the most.”

Stiles nodded, eyes narrowed on the cloud of demonic energy – and then it began.

A small flurry of blue-tinged white was pulled from Clary, a smiling woman with dark auburn hair showing in the cloud for a moment before vanishing inside Valak. Then from Stiles one that was deep grey: the face of a beautiful woman, perhaps of Middle Eastern descent, eyes closed in repose that would fool most but not all – whoever it was, she was dead. From Jace came another of the same blue-tinged white, Alec practicing with his bow. Magnus’s addition was brief and ringed in red: a handsome Asian man with cat-eyes was there-and-gone before the others could really see it. At last the demon came full circle and took from Alec a memory of his siblings, _all_ of them, even the youngest sitting in what looked like a library.

“It is done.” Magnus announced and a beam of the same blue-white as their memories poured from the demon and hit Clary in the chest, only the strength of the hold Stiles and Alec had on her keeping her from crumpling completely and breaking the circle.

Stiles snorted at the obvious ploy of the demon, sending another lash of power into the circle to punish it, and it disappeared as quickly as it came, Stiles and Alec lowering Clary down onto the ground.

“How is she?” Izzy asked, worried, as her new friend remained knocked out despite the chill of the concrete.

“She’ll be fine.” Stiles diagnosed after brief scan, allowing Izzy and Jace to crowd around the redhead as he and Alec stepped back. “Assimilating memories like that isn’t what the mind is built for. She’ll rest until she’s recovered and then it will be like it never happened at all.”

“How long will that take?” Alec asked, even as he passed the ruby necklace over to Magnus, which the warlock took with a saucy little bow.

Stiles just shrugged. “Hard to say. Depends on how flexible or hard-headed she is.”

“Great.” Alec drawled even as Izzy whapped him on the leg. “So, next year some time then? _Excellent_.”

…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For more information about my stories (fanfic and original) find me on Facebook at: https://www.facebook.com/sif.shadowheart
> 
> Or follow me on Twitter: https://twitter.com/AbramsSif


	7. Chapter 7

** Hunter’s Bane **

**Chapter Seven: Fly or Fall**

“Did you see what he did?” Izzy hissed to her brother as Jace carried an unconscious Clary through the portal to the Institute Magnus had opened for them, Alec staying close so that Clary’s bracelet wouldn’t set off whatever alarm or punishment or whatever was built into it.

She wouldn’t wonder if even someone as eternally prepared and observant as Alec had missed it.

Being in the eye of a demonic power storm wouldn’t be a walk in the park and she was glad to have been merely an observer and sitting on the sidelines for once.

“See what who did?” Alec asked weary. Job over and done for the night but until Clary woke up there was no way to know if the gamble with the necklace was going to pay off. Add in that he now owed a favor to Stiles and he wasn’t feeling particularly optimistic at the moment, not that he was Mr. Sunshine as a rule.

“Alec,” Izzy grabbed her brother’s arm, jerking him to a halt just inside the back entrance to the Institute. “Stiles. I’m talking about _Stiles_. _He hurt the demon Alec_, when it wasn’t in a physical form.”

“And…?” Alec drawled a little, pushing forward as his sister hustled to keep up with him in her sparkling silver mini-dress and stiletto booties. He’d never understand _how_ she managed to fight like that, but Izzy was Izzy and she made it look amazing every time she did it. “Powerful enough warlocks can hurt demons on the physical plane, especially those of a lesser breed than their demonic sires. We know that.”

It was one of the reasons bottom-feeder demons like Raveners hunt warlock children even with their limited intelligence: survival and feeding off the power of the demonic-powered blood in their veins.

“Yeah, but.” She darted around her brother and held him still by his biceps staring up into his eyes. “Stiles did it without using his hands, Alec. He just _shot_ power into the circle despite the power-sharing bond and hurt a greater demon badly enough for it to change it’s price on Clary’s memories. That’s _not_ something the average or even above average warlock can _do_.”

Now that she’d pointed it out, the discrepancy gave him pause.

For most use, especially bigger spells, warlocks needed their hands for their magic. It was how they cast or channeled it or however they wanted to put it. Like with Magnus’s snapping and waves and flourishes or Stiles’s slash to close a portal. That’s why when dealing with enemy warlocks shadowhunters were taught to go for their hands _first_.

Basic shadowhunter tactics for fighting demons and confrontational downworlders.

He shared a long look with his sister, understanding – and more than a bit of dread – washing over him.

“We need to find out more information on Stiles.” Alec decided. “See if there’s anything in the classified files. Footnotes in other files, anything.”

“And what are you going to do?”

“I’m going to dig into the Uprising.” Alec told her, already making plans for once he’d gotten changed and cleaned up – and an hour or two of sleep. “_Something_ that happened back then with Valentine and the Circle rattled his cage. You saw how he reacted to Hodge.” And more telling, how Hodge reacted to _him_. “It’s more than general downworlder-shadowhunter tension or grudges. I’m going to see if there’s anything we know about what it _actually_ is.”

“Ok, big brother.” She nodded, thinking face on as she let him go. “You’re the boss.”

“Thank you, Izzy.” He sighed, rubbing one hand over his face. He couldn’t believe he’d _missed_ that. “I really dropped the ball on that one.”

“Hey,” she shrugged a shoulder. “You’re stressed with the Summit and the Clave envoy coming to make sure everything is perfect beforehand,” which meant their parents would return from politicking in Idris and _that_ would be enough to stress out _anybody_ even if they weren’t prone to being worriers like her big brother. Too much responsibility from too young an age. Izzy could _smack_ her mother for what she’d done to Alec sometimes. “Add in the Mortal Cup and _Clary_,” she rolled her eyes. “It’s a lot. I get it.”

“You’re the best, Izzy.”

“I know.” She smiled and tossed her hair, feeling warm inside her chest when Alec loosened up enough to laugh – _really_ laugh – for the first time in days.

…

Magnus stared in serious contemplation at the other warlock in his warehouse after the portal shut behind the shadowhunters – and shadowhunter-lite of course.

“You are aware of course,” he said, arching a brow as he circled the younger man. “That most warlocks can’t harm or counter a demon with ease, let alone without word or summoning magic through their hands. In face,” he came around, staring point-blank into those eyes that were still glowing golden. “As of tonight, I can think of precisely _two_. The shadowhunters aren’t stupid, despite the way they appear at times Stiles.” Magnus warned, though depending on how stubborn the other was he couldn’t say it would be heeded or not. “Were you _hunting_ during any other time or place, a bounty would already be placed on your head by the Clave. They don’t take well to losing their own, even rogues, in _self-defense_ let alone actively being hunted. Giving them extra cause to come after you is unwise if you’re not prepared for the outcome.”

“Good thing there’s no bodies to go with my hunting then, isn’t it?” Stiles gave the beautiful – and powerful – warlock a slow smile. Magnus Bane was turning out to be nothing – and everything – like he’d expected. He wasn’t sure, given recent events, if that was a good thing or not. Fortunately, being warlocks, he had all the time in the world to find out. If _finding out_ took his mind off of sweet smiles and tousled dark curls, well, all to the better. Shadowhunters and warlocks weren’t meant to be together. Their very natures were far too contrary, it would only end in pain. And he’d had quite enough of that for the next ten lifetimes. “And I’m concerned with the Lightwoods but only to a point. Izzy seems sympathetic and Alec – when he’s not in the middle of a crisis – is far more fair-minded than I ever would’ve expected _Maryse _Lightwood to spawn. The others aren’t the brightest when it comes to picking up clues from what I can tell.”

“I wouldn’t discount them either.” Magnus really couldn’t help himself. Dangerous son of who – Magnus is assuming based on that display with Valak – was a Greater Demon if not a Prince of Hell or not, Stiles was one of Magnus’s own. He had to try. “While Clarissa is new to this world and will miss things others know intuitively, her parents are cunning. And blondie may _seem_ like an aggressive _doer_ rather than a thinker, but shadowhunters don’t survive long into their twenties without some measure of intelligence.”

“I’m not worried,” Stiles shook his head, smile turning crooked and one-sided. “But thanks for the warning anyway.” With a nod, he took his leave, summoning a portal and stepping through, vanishing elsewhere in the city, which after a moment’s contemplation and a quick check with his magic Magnus identified as near the heavily-warded blank-spot on his mental map that he’d pinged as Stiles’s most likely residence.

Humming lightly under his breath, Magnus pulled out his phone in its glittery case and spotted the number the delightful Isabelle had given him, adding it after a moment’s thought as Pretty Boy.

A snap of his fingers had his warehouse cleaned and locked down once more then Magnus was portaling home to rest before the next round of negotiations.

Perhaps he might find time during one of their breaks to use his furtively-acquired information.

With as quickly as shadowhunters lived and died, there was no need to rest on his laurels, and at his age sometimes the push-pull of the modern dating games seemed…_crass_ or a waste of precious time.

…

The sharp clack of stiletto heels on marble might as well be a death knell as it rang clattering in Izzy’s ears where she was practicing with Clary at Hodge’s request in the training room.

Other than her, there was only _one_ person who it could be.

She’d like to say it was unexpected but with the Summit – for some reason that she was relatively certain was soaked in centuries of distrust between factions of the Shadow World – the final round of negotiations and official signing was to take place in New York rather than Alicante for the very first time since the Accords were first proposed in London in the mid-nineteenth century.

And _Angel forbid_ that Maryse Lightwood not be there, looming and disapproving, over every last detail as Alec as the official host and the Envoy from the Clave who’d yet to arrive decided upon them.

“Isabelle.” Maryse nodded sharply, barely looking at her before her eyes cut to the redhead one step behind her, Clary having followed when Izzy rushed to intercept and give Alec time to get her text in warning of their mother’s unannounced arrival from Alicante in Idris.

“Mother,” Izzy nodded with a smile. “This is…”

“Clarissa Fairchild, I know.” Maryse’s cutting gaze and tone might as well be barbed wire as it slashed with dismissive disdain over both girls. “You look like your mother.”

“I go by Clary Fray, actually.” Clary said, squaring her shoulders.

For all the good it did her as Maryse actually _sniffed_ before turning her head in dismissal.

“Where’s your brothers?”

“Alec is in his office.” Izzy reported. That was the tone of _Institute Head Lightwood_, nothing else. “Jace is practicing.”

Without a word of thanks or further greeting Maryse brushed passed them to stand on the edge of a practice ring once she’d spotted Jace working diligently with a seraph blade.

“That’s your mom?” Clary whispered in shock, still reeling from the abrupt nature of the woman. Though she sorta got where Alec got a lot of his colder behavior. It hadn’t made sense in comparison to Izzy and Jace but now..wow. Compared to his mom, Alec was positively warm and fuzzy. “She didn’t even hug you.”

“Shadowhunters aren’t big huggers.” Izzy tried to dismiss the cutting and cold behavior of her mother, only to be made a liar of as no sooner than Jace had finished than he was rushing over to Maryse with a smile as she beamed and opened her arms to embrace her adopted – and favored – quite literal _golden_ child.

“Maryse, hey.” Jace smiled. “Hey, it’s great to see you! How’s everyone in Idris? Where’s Max?” Jace looked around a moment for his little brother, the youngest Lightwood who was nine.

“No Max.” Izzy said striding forward and recovering from the slight inherent in her mother’s behavior. “Just Mom with her hair on fire.” She jabbed at Maryse’s brusque dismissal.

“I _love_ how much shadowhunters share.” Clary added a bit _too_ sweetly. “A hidden brother, secret country, private portal.”

“Mother,” Alec stepped in before any more claws could be bared, sending up a short prayer to the angel that he’d made it before blood could be shed – literally or figuratively. “Welcome back.” He leaned forward as he came to a stop, lowering his head to accept Maryse’s kiss on his cheek. “I didn’t expect you until the Envoy arrived.”

“You should be prepared whether you expect me or not.” Maryse scolded – lightly, for her.

“I am.” There was no give in Alec’s tone, even as he fell in shoulder-to-shoulder with Jace in parade rest. “_We_,” corrected at a look from his _parabatai_. “Are.”

“Excellent.” Maryse declared. “Then how goes the recovery of the Mortal Cup?” She questioned, turning her sharply intelligent gaze on Clary, who’d only woken that morning after spending two days unconscious as her mind made sense of time and memories she’d been made to forget or had taken from her altogether. “As long as it remains lost the Clave has no choice but to _bargain_ with the downworlders, against the natural order. So, tell me,” she stopped her pacing and stood staring down at Clary. “What was in your mind, girl, that was worth what the Institute paid for it?”

Alec’s phone rang in his pocket before Clary could answer, Alec glancing for permission from his mother who, despite current moves by the Clave and Clave Council, was still his commanding officer.

She was the _Head_ along with his father of the New York Institute while Alec was only the _acting_ Head.

When push came to shove, his parents were still in charge which meant his mother was still in charge. A fact which it looked like Clary was about to learn the hard way if the mulish look on her face was any sign. _Angel_ he didn’t know if he wanted to hide from the explosion or get snacks and watch. He supposed it depended on whether Clary said anything with her personal brand of irritation to get under his skin between then and now.

Maryse nodded, after he looked at the caller ID and then glanced at her, that he didn’t immediately silence it speaking volumes even as he moved away and she focused back on the Fairchild girl.

Though there seemed to be a bright light in this whole situation: the girl was wearing the binding cuff the Council had demanded.

Good.

At least one of her children still remembered how to follow orders, even if it had to be her greatest disappointment. Alec would have been _perfect_. A well-connected wife. The strongest and most respected Head in the Americas. The Lightwood name would have ascended to heights they hadn’t known in decades. If only… If only he hadn’t been born with his _abnormality_ and then made a spectacle of it in front of half of Alicante.

There had been no quick wedding to cover it up after that. No backsliding no apologies. _Nothing_ could hide what he’d spread himself in grand fashion. If it had only been a matter of _rumors_ about his perversion that would’ve been one thing. Easily dealt with with the right wife and an heir.

She would be impressed with how thoroughly Alec had planned his defense against such political maneuvers to counter her with an audacious offense if it hadn’t been _her_ and _her son_ who’d been at the center of it.

That Alec had continued to rise and rise high in the Clave despite the feelings of half the Council was likewise admirable, culminating in his position as acting Head with a chance to rise or fall laid at his feet.

It was a trap, Maryse knew it was.

Whether or not the Summit succeeded or failed ultimately wouldn’t matter, there were those who’d blame Alec and the Lightwoods either way.

All she could do was preventative damage control.

And she knew _just_ how to manage it, even if it meant relying on such an untrustworthy creature as the mundane raised daughter of Valentine Morganstern and Jocelyn Fairchild.

…

Much to Magnus’s dismay, he _wasn’t_ able to find time to call the delightful Alexander for another two days as the negotiations kicked into high gear to have a final draft of the Shadow World treaty ready to present at the actual Summit.

The current negotiations were more like _rough drafts_ with numerous edits, untold amounts of insults, and quite a bit of swearing tossed in for good measure.

A full Summit would be _unwieldy_ for such discussions to say the least, requiring at least two dozen participants with representatives from all of the known races of the Shadow World who would be potentially governed by the changes to the existing Accords. As it was, locking up half a dozen Nephilim, four warlocks, two Seelie, an Unseelie, a werewolf, and a vampire in the same room and asking them to play nice together was stretching things to a breaking point. And that was without having reps from the druids, shifters, or the scant hybrids running around the globe present.

Shifters tended to trust werewolves to look out for their interests and vice versa, the same sort of understanding that existed for the druids with the Seelie and warlocks though for differing reasons. The Seelie and Druids both shared a strong connection to nature. Warlocks and Druids were the only species fully capable of magic without drawing on an outside source, though they could if needed.

As for hybrids…

They were a sore subject for the shadowhunters to say the least and until the birth of Tessa Gray, hadn’t even been an acknowledged _possibility_ let alone a race of people requiring representation within the Accords.

To that end, they weren’t even _mentioned_ in the Accords or even Covenant Law, though the Clave Council had made it _quite_ clear that such proof of their shadowhunters – their _warriors_ – sullying themselves with downworlders was to be ignored _at best_ and banished at worst when a case becomes problematic enough to require acknowledgement that said-hybrid _was_ a hybrid and not just an odd Seelie with a mortality problem or a warlock who could hold a witchlight stone or come and go from the Institutes and Idris at will.

Still, he managed to find a break two evenings after helping the Fairchild girl reclaim her memories to make a much-awaited call after negotiations had broken for the day and he miraculously didn’t have a pounding migraine to show for it.

Likely due to the unexpected but appreciated absence of Maryse Lightwood from the Clave’s representatives, though how long _that_ blessing will last he couldn’t say.

_“Hello, who is this?”_ Alec’s lovely deep tones came through the speaker of Magnus’s phones, sending a bit of a shiver down his spine. Surely it couldn’t be healthy to be so attracted to a shadowhunter?

Even lovely Will Herondale hadn’t caught him quite so neatly with so little effort as Alec Lightwood…though perhaps that was an ill-made comparison.

Will, after all, ended up married to Magnus’s now dear-friend Tessa and spent most of their association deeply confused and conflicted over his feelings for his _parabatai_ Jem Carstairs. Not that Magnus could blame him. Jem had his own charms, though the tragedy that was the Tessa-Will-Jem love triangle rather overshadowed Magnus’s own short-lived affair with Will.

_“_Alexander, hi.” Magnus set down his glass of burbon on an end table to wander while he spoke with the shadowhunter. “It’s Magnus. We met the other day, you know: with the demon.”

_“Uh yeah, yeah hey, what’s up?”_ Alec asked, feeling a little- he didn’t know. Unsettled? He didn’t remember giving Magnus his number but: warlock. Giddy? He wasn’t a teenager anymore and Magnus wasn’t some too-pretty crush. Though he was pretty…

“I was just thinking,” Magnus smiled as Alec’s tone seemed to lose a bit of its irritation and warm. Good sign. That was a good sign. “It was really nice getting to know you. You seem,” Magnus paused then grinned, feeling zero shame in using Stiles’s description. “Sympathetic. Would you like to go out for a drink sometime?” He got to the point, seeing no sense in beating around the bush when he’d already made his interest – to his mind – rather obvious the other night.

“_That sounds fun,”_ Alec admitted, fighting off a moment of hesitation. He was out now. Had been for years. Magnus wasn’t some random hookup or a shadowhunter trying to climb the ladder by climbing _Alec_. And in the end: it was only a drink. What could it hurt? _“When_?”

“How about right now?”

_“Um_,” Alec turned, almost swallowing his tongue at the kill-you-where-you-stand looks being exchanged between his mother and Clary, Izzy and Jace both looking a weird mix of upset and entertained that said they’d be _zero use_ in handling it. Fuck. Nothing like the sight of his mother to bring him back to reality. _“Now’s not really a good time for me. Another time. Gotta go.”_

Already kicking himself at blowing off Magnus, Alec rushed over before the two strong-headed, fiery women could start World War Three in the center of his Institute.

On the other end of the phone, Magnus heard the click and chuckled a little.

“Playing hard to get?” He mused, smiling. “I love a challenge.”

…

Alec had diffused oncoming war between Clary and his mother, though not without taking swipes from _both_ of them at which point Jace tugged Clary away for more lessons, then retreated back to his office to get on with planning the Summit while his mother reigned in the Head’s office going over each and every order he’d made as acting Head with a fine-toothed comb.

Because of course she was.

At least Izzy had stepped up and given him the compilations on downworlder customs he’d need for planning the Summit as he asked, as both of them had found trying to dig up more information on Stiles frustrating. He was like vapor. They could find traces of what they _thought_ might be him here and there but nothing they could hold onto or use to track him in the Clave’s files.

Except for an estimated body count from the Uprising.

That was there in black and white when Alec used his clearance to look at the blunt estimates of lives lost as a result of Valentine’s madness.

With a number bordering on three digits of Circle members, Alec was shocked that Stiles hadn’t been captured instead of interviewed and released but then things _had_ been rocky to say the least.

To get the Accords signed, the Clave _had_ to give all of the Downworlders who’d defended themselves and others during the Uprising a free pass on their kills.

Even Stiles’s whose was higher than _everyone_ it was thought in some reports except for Magnus Bane himself.

Which gave Alec a moment’s pause. The charming, flirty, glittery warlock who’d asked him out for drinks was a _killer_ not just a warlock peddling love potions and luck spells. Hodge hadn’t been joking when he’d warned them about Magnus.

What it said about Alec that he wasn’t turned off by staring the evidence of Magnus’s bloodier side to his nature he wasn’t really wanting to examine at that exact point in time.

He was beating his head against the differences between Seelie and _Un_seelie, something that was even more ephemeral and elusive than facts about Stiles from what Izzy had put together, apparently the Seelie she knew didn’t like to talk about their counterparts which was just _yay_, when a message popped up on his tablet and had him rushing to his feet and trying to make himself presentable.

The Envoy had arrived.

…

Alec was never more thankful to be hopelessly gay – he knew, he’d tried to like girls, even kissed more than one, it was _never_ going to happen – than on a day like today where the stars were misaligned or he was caught in a backlash of karma or he was paying for the sins of a past life by spending at least _half_ of his waking hours mediating fights between the women around him.

There was Clary and his mother.

There was Izzy needed consoling, no matter _how_ brave a face she put on, over his mother’s cold dismissal of her.

There was the arrival of the Clave’s Envoy, an esteemed member of the Inquisitor’s office named Lydia Branwell, and his mother acting as if Ms. Branwell was an encroucher on her territory when all that she was there to _do_ was help him ensure the plans he made for the Summit met the approval of the Clave Council.

His mother, apparently, took that as a _personal_ slight on either her or the Lightwoods in general – it was hard to tell sometimes – and was more difficult to deal with than usual as a result.

All in all, he was up to his neck and drowning in stress and could have _danced_ when Jace coming to play go-between for Clary distracted his mother acted as a life preserver by getting Maryse out of his office and out of his and Ms. Branwell’s hair. At this point, he didn’t _care_ what idiocy that the girl led Jace into. As long as it distracted their mother and no one died, he was all for it.

And since Maryse was the one signing off on whatever it was, if it backfired even Maryse would have a hard time blaming it on Alec, though that didn’t mean – or so said a little voice that sounded a lot like Izzy – she wouldn’t manage it anyway.

With Jace, Clary, and Izzy off on a mission, control of Clary’s bind rune being transferred over to Jace by his mother, mere hours after she arrived already turning over the headache that was Clary Fray to someone else since at the moment taking control of the Institute meant taking control of Clary, and his mother returning to her own office instead of his, he and Ms. Branwell actually started making progress on their own mission of hashing out the details of the Summit.

“Finally,” Lydia sighed, reaching over to the small locked hard-sided briefcase she’d brought with her into his office after she’d dropped off her luggage in one of the Institute’s guest rooms and promptly ignored after setting it down at seeing Maryse Lightwood waiting in her son’s office. “Sorry, about the secrecy,” she apologized after she set the case on top of his desk in a clear portion then walked over to the door and quickly drew out runes for privacy, silence, and locking that couldn’t be undone from the outside.

Alec arched a brow, standing and coming around to wait next to the case on his desk while Lydia went through whatever precautions she either thought wise or was instructed to perform by the Clave Council.

“But,” Lydia continued. “The Consul was firm in his orders. The Summit is the most delicate piece of diplomacy any Nephilim will ever take part in. With the loss of the Mortal Cup and Valentine’s return, not insulting the Downworld leaders has never been more important. To that end,” Lydia unlocked her briefcase, moving her stele through the motions of one of the most complex unlocking runes he’d ever seen outside of the highest security vault in the Institute. The place where they kept their most priceless artefact, sensitive documents, or other valuables. Where Alec had hidden Clary’s necklace as well as her binder before turning the latter over to his mother as the security of the vault was so important that only a single shadowhunter and single stele were able to access it at a time. “He asked the Silent Brothers to turn over these,” Lydia turned the opened case to face him, revealing the contents to his wide eyes.

Alec took a sharp breath as he saw a pair of items that, combined with the runes on them not all of which were angelic in origin, were almost two hundred years old, dating to the first Accords.

“Is that…” He asked in wonder, taking in the gleaming soft gold inlaid with silver of the scroll and the seal die that was carved out of what appeared to be pure adamas, used to make old-fashioned wax seals for important documents and correspondence at the time of the Accords.

“The Alliance Scroll.” Lydia confirmed, holding in her inner Nephilim historian only through sheer will. That it had been entrusted _to her_ to deliver to Alec Lightwood…she still wasn’t over it. “Enchanted and gifted to the Clave as a gift of friendship and sign of alliance after the successful signing of the first Accords by the Warlocks’ Council. Together with the Alliance Seal forged by the Iron Sisters,” she ached to reach out and touch the die. “It can be used by the Host of the Summit to designate the representatives of each race of the Shadow World and create the summons for them to appear.” Breaking out of her fangirl daze, she shot a firm gaze at Lightwood. “None of the Clave, even the Silent Brothers, have ever been able to decipher _how_ the Warlocks designed the Scroll. Only that it will be true to its purpose: identifying the representatives of each race who have the authority and power to negotiate and sign a treaty on their behalf. Information that many would kill to possess as it uses the belief of the _people_ and not those designated by the Clave to decide on the representatives.”

Knowing his hands were shaking just a bit at the responsibility that he would be taking on if he chose to use it, he brushed one hand over the scroll, blinking a bit as he realized: it wasn’t gold _leaf_ on parchment or vellum under his hand as he’d expect from a scroll of its age but _actual _gold.

Holy _shit_.

“And the Consul wants me to use it, _now_?”

He thought his disbelief would be excused given that it was _meant_ to be used ages ago for the second signing of the Accords but never was – a slight that he was rather certain had only contributed to the icy relations between the Nephilim and the warlocks ever since.

“Relations are tense.” Lydia said in a tone that might as well be a verbal shrug. “Some in the Clave might be counting on retrieving the Mortal Cup but the Consul is wise. Making overatures _just in case_ it isn’t retrieved before the Summit could only help.”

It certainly wasn’t going to make things _worse_.

Well.

Unless…

“Once you activate the scroll, you _absolutely_ must give it the highest priority for security.” She commanded. “If Valentine or _anyone_ who wished to spike the treaty were to get an accounting of who is coming, let alone where and when, it could lead to diaster.”

“You don’t need to tell me that, Ms. Branwell.” Alec told her, tone sharp. “I am _well aware_ of what is resting on the Accords being reaffirmed.”

“Good.” Lydia nodded crisply, not taking it personally. It was a tense situation all around. “I will leave you to it then, perhaps I can tour where you’ve decided to host?”

“Yeah, of course,” Alec reached over and sent a quick message to Raj at the Ops Center to come and assist. “Raj will take you to the chapel. It’s the only area other than completely clearing the Ops or Training Centers that can host a gathering of this size.”

They traded a nod, Alec taking the box that held the two relic from her briefcase and handing it over to her as he closed the box and set it out of sight of the door on his desk, then Lydia brought down her wards and went out to meet this “Raj” at the knock on the door, leaving Alec to his decision.

Pressure from the Consul or not, ultimately at the host it was for Alec to decide.

Personally, given the information he would be given if he decided to use the Scroll, Lydia couldn’t blame him for having reservations.

It was one thing to _assume_ the identities of the powers that ruled the Shadow World.

It was another to _know_ and to be bound to silence regarding it, especially with his family so firmly entangled with the Mortal Cup issue.

In this she didn’t envy him, not one bit, even if by virtue of his sex he was next in line for leading an institute and by burden of her own she was not.

Heavy was the head that wore the crown.

…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For more information about my stories (fanfic and original) find me on Facebook at: https://www.facebook.com/sif.shadowheart
> 
> Or follow me on Twitter: https://twitter.com/AbramsSif


	8. Chapter 8

** Hunter’s Bane **

**Chapter Eight: Thicker Than Water**

Standing ankle-deep in demon ash and ichor, a growl rumbling deep in his throat and eyes flashing beta gold, Derek was _dead_ certain though he didn’t know how, _yet_, that this whole clusterfuck was Clary’s fault.

Wrinkling his nose as he sniffed deeply to catch the scent of the others under the overpowering stench of _demon_, he growled and jogged off towards his left.

He couldn’t smell Clary or the shadowhunters.

But he caught the acrid scent of fear, rage, and the coppery tang of blood just fine.

If that _stubborn_, irritating little brat ended up getting him killed, he was going to haunt Stiles until his best friend resurrected him _just_ so he could strangle her with her own hair.

According to the blond shadowhunter who he’d run into loitering outside the squad room, all she’d needed to do was keep calm and talk to Luke about the things he took from her loft. That was it. Instead, somehow, things had gone wrong in a split second leading to Clary freaking out, werewolves from Luke’s pack trying to kidnap her and chase her into the tunnels under the station, and demons finding them literally as soon as they were out of range of the werewolf trackers.

Using the supernatural speed that was natural to him as a wolf shifter, eyes glowing as he saw through the dark, Derek ran never losing the scent as it grew stronger and stronger, eventually leading him to a ladder below an open exit back to the street, the sounds of growls, snarls, yells, and screaming nearly ear-piercing for someone with a wolf’s senses.

Skipping the ladder, Derek crouched then jumped, landing lightly on the ground next to the tunnel exit, taking in the scene before him in a glance before darting forward.

Catching Clary before she could charge and interrupt the snarling and snapping ball of fur that Derek couldn’t see into well enough to identify the fighters but based on evidence – such as the Alpha’s seconds standing in a semi-circle opposite Clary and her pet shadowhunters – he was going with it being his sponsor Luke and the pack alpha.

No need to wonder what it was about.

Rumors about the Fairchilds and the Mortal Cup were threatening to toss the Shadow World into chaos, only the ongoing negotiations keeping the hotter heads in the Downworld from doing something rash.

Like, say, attempting to kidnap Clary Fray away from shadowhunters and use her to find, or as an exchange for, the Mortal Cup.

Fuck but Ennis was an _idiot_.

He might be meaner and a hell of a lot bigger than Luke but even the youngest pup knew not to threaten family when it came to wolves, one of those instances where shifter or werewolf didn’t matter.

All of them were just the same.

That Luke had adopted Clary rather than sired her wouldn’t mean a damn thing to Garroway, that girl was his, and that connection was one of the only reasons Stiles had helped save her ass in the first place, let alone Derek doing the same just now.

With a snarl he tossed Clary back into the arms of her little friends demanding that he “hold her!” then shifted in mid-step and becoming a veritable mountain of teeth and attitude between Ennis’s seconds and the dominance fight going on now behind him.

Shadowhunters couldn’t interfere, this was _pack_ business which he heard the shadowhunters explaining – or trying – to a struggling Clary as he kept the seconds from interfering.

If Luke failed, they’d tear Derek apart for this, only his status as a Hale keeping them in their places even now.

Luke _better_ not fail.

Stiles would never let him hear the end of it…once he came through with a bit of necromancy anyway.

The resounding _crack_ of snapping bone echoed through the – _container storage? Where the hell were they?_ – and the seconds looked behind Derek, then shifted out of their smaller-than-Derek wolf forms and crouched, lowering their heads one by one. He knew what that meant. He knew it as soon as they didn’t attack him at the sound of a neck being broken, a sound that as a wolf shifter he was all too familiar with for more than one reason.

Looking behind him Derek shifted as well, even as the non-wolves stared around in confusion as Luke wobbled on his feet, the broken form of Ennis at his feet with a head that was turned just a _bit_ too far to the left giving truth to the manner of his death.

And what followed it as Luke, even wobbling, flashed his eyes at his new subordinates.

“I don’t understand,” Clary whimpered where Izzy was holding her, Jace letting go of her belt from his hold at her lower back and her arm now that the danger of being accused in interfering in an alpha battle was over. “What’s happening?”

“He’s the alpha now.” Derek announced, then darted forward and caught Luke in his arms at the toll of his wounds rendered him unconscious. Not that he could blame him. From what he understood whether werewolf or wolf shifter, the rush of alpha power transferring was enough to knock out the strongest of wolves if they weren’t prepared for it. “C’mon,” he cast a suspicious glance at the wolves behind him. “We need to get him somewhere safe to recover,” he grimaced at the blood dripping from Luke’s chest onto his shirt. “And heal. Werewolf venom is a fucker, even to their own and alpha venom is worse.”

“I know someone.” Clary said, perking up at the notion of having _something_ to do that would help.

“Good.” Jace jumped in to take back control. “Let’s go.”

…

As soon as the door closed behind Lydia’s back, Alec was up and repeating her precautionary runes on the door, then slapped additional anti-spying and silence and privacy runes on the door and walls for insurance.

Call him paranoid but things had been _way_ too weird, even for the Shadow World, lately and he wasn’t taking any chances.

The power that he’d been entrusted with blew his mind.

Fall or fly was right, if he slipped even for a _moment_ as far as the actual _names_ of the Downworld leaders were concerned, he’d be dead before he could even regret it, let alone the shame it would bring down on his family. Forget being head of the institute. If he fucked this up he’d be lucky for a swift death instead of being de-runed and tossed out for demon food.

Alec was many things but an idiot wasn’t one of them.

His mother’s return was about more than making sure the Summit went off without a hitch. With her reaction and laser-locked focus on Clary, it was self-evident what she was really there for. The Mortal Cup. It wasn’t a shock to him that his mother, who’d been hip-deep in Clave politics in Alicante until noon today, was here on a mission to ensure it was found in the little time remaining before the Summit now that a link to its disappearance had appeared.

He knew her feelings on downworlders better than anyone.

He’d had them pounded into his head since he was old enough to hold a stele.

_Downworlders were slaves to their impulses._

_Downworlders were tainted by their demonic blood._

_Downworlders were kept separate from the Nephilim for good reason._

_Downworlders were less controlled, less disciplined, less worthy than Nephilim_.

At the heart of it, Maryse’s philosophies on Downworlders – and mundanes which wasn’t far behind – could be summed up as: Downworlders were simply _less_.

Maybe a week ago, before he’d met Stiles and Magnus, seen the things they were capable of, the grief and yes, _rage_, that the mere sight of Hodge brought out in Stiles or that followed the Lightwood name to them or the look on Magnus’s face when he saw the inscription on his necklace, he might’ve agreed.

Now, however, he was starting to doubt.

It wasn’t as if it was the first time.

If the Clave – and his parents – could be wrong about _him_, it wasn’t a massive logical leap that they could be wrong about _them_.

The thought had merely never occurred to him before.

But now that it has, it wasn’t hard to see what was underneath Maryse’s transparent desire to locate and obtain the Mortal Cup, and it was one that was hardly more _pure_ in intention than that of the Downworlders or even Valentine who were also searching for it.

His mother and whoever she was colluding with in Alicante, wanted the Cup to pull the Clave Council’s collective heads out of the noose that the lack of the Cup, lack of accountability to the Shadow World as a whole, and lack of compassion and empathy for the Downworlders had put them in.

Between the Downworlder numbers that were only growing and the Nephilim – let alone Shadowhunter – numbers that were ever diminishing without the Cup, the Clave couldn’t _afford_ the war that would come if the Accords weren’t redrawn in favor of the Downworlders, or at _least_ not as biased towards the Nephilim as they currently stood, to say nothing of surviving a second Uprising.

Truth be told: other than for fighting demons, the Downworlders didn’t really _need_ the Shadowhunters.

And even then, with warlocks like Stiles and Magnus wandering around, it made Alec wonder if their service to the Shadow World couldn’t be handled another way.

That the Council wouldn’t be pleased to have the pendulum swing in favor of the Downworlders for the first time in a thousand years since the advent of the Nephilim race, was an _understatement_.

It also made him ponder over what it might be that the Consul was _truly_ after in having him use the Scroll and if there might be a darker purpose to it, much like his mother’s mission to retrieve the Cup.

There was only one path he could take and still sleep tonight, and with that decided, he reached for his best stationary, purchased by his mother for his sixteenth birthday when she was still pretending he _wasn’t_ gay as fuck for courtship letters for his future bride, the set all heavy cream vellum striped with real gold fibers. His fountain pen and stele joined the box as he took a rag to his blotter ensuring that it was perfectly clean and no smuges or dirt would cling to the backside of his letters, his best ink in deep blue to symbolize the Accords was unearthed from a drawer, and he at last retook his seat. Resting his palms flat on the desk he took a breath then another before reaching out and unlatching the simple silver closure on the plain box that at a glance one would never know held treasures worth, quite literally, the earth.

With reverent hands he took out first the adamas seal, finding underneath it an enchanted – based on the rune work – wax sealing candle in a deep blue with flecks of every color except notably white and bronze. As they signified mourning and forbidden arts to Nephilim, Alec wasn’t surprised by their exclusion. Setting them aside, he took another bracing breath then gently removed the gold Alliance scroll from the bed of undyed silk that had held it for generations.

He’d been right when he’d thought earlier from a single touch that it was actual gold and not gold leaf over parchment.

Thin as his thick vellum stationary, as he unrolled the silver inlaid gold, he saw that it was exactly that: gold, beaten thin and inlaid, likely not falling apart from even the exquisitely delicate care Alec was taking by the enchantments laid into it on its creation. The rune work was more complex than anything he’d ever seen, runes angelic and in every language of the Downworld he knew and including some he didn’t. At top and bottom were blank lines waiting for, from what he could tell of the language that was thankfully in English albeit with wording and flourishes appropriate to the time period, him to write the date of the Summit at the top and add his name at the bottom as the host.

The scroll, or so it read and he understood, would do the rest, taking a survey of the peoples of the Shadow World and instruct Alec on who to invite – and almost as important, who to snub as a result.

Only downside: he had to do it in blood.

Because of course he did.

When it was done and he saw the list, the names filling in line after line on the sheet of soft gold in silver in an elegant hand – making him wonder who the Warlock Council had used as a template – what he found was about what he expected with a few exceptions then a circle was formed underneath a list of names making him chuckle.

He wasn’t sure why, but he was relatively certain _someone_ had had a sense of humor who helped enchant the scroll and his money was on Magnus even with only meeting him once, because who else would think that a seating chart was a necessary component for an Alliance Scroll but someone who was old enough to watch firsthand as more than one attempt at the Accords had fallen through before finally being signed.

Still it _was_ helpful.

He never would’ve thought of _inviting_ Helen Blackthorn as a representative of the shadowhunters who had a downworlder parent but there she was, on the list and seated between one of the Seelie – which made sense as her mother was a member of the Seelie court – and the Druids.

Tessa Gray he _would_ have thought of due to her being the only known warlock born of a shadowhunter mother but he had no idea who half the names on the list even were, though a few unexpected or never-before-seen names like Zahir al-Walid, Salil Darklight, and _three of the four Unseelie princes_ definitely stuck out.

The Alliance Scroll, even converted to a list of names plus a seating chart and verbiage to use on the summons, didn’t explicitly _say_ who the various representatives were among their people unless their title was as much part of their identity as their name from what Alec could tell. Three princes, a queen, three alphas, and so on, along with the Clave members and a pair of Silent Brothers – though one was noted as a scribe not an attendee which actually made a lot of sense – made that clear. He could take somewhat accurate guesses as he wasn’t wholly ignorant to downworld politics. He’d studied all his life to take over an Institute, it had been his ultimate goal as long as he could remember, and diplomacy – even with the downworlders no matter what his mother said – was a massive part of that job, second only to paperwork from what he could tell after doing it for more than a year. His knowledge of the various packs, clans, covens, etc. didn’t help him in every instance, more than one name was a complete mystery to him, but that actually made him even more excited to meet some of them no matter how unbecoming that might be in a mature, experienced shadowhunter who was expected to Head an institute one day.

Getting back on track after goggling over some of the names, names he’d only seen in significant historical context with the Unseelie Princes and leaders of the Djinn in particular and having a list of invitees of thirty-three people including himself as the “host,” he knuckled down and got to work on the summons for the representatives, using the formal language as dictated by the scroll and as many privacy and security runes as he could think of to prevent anyone but those invited from reading the place and time of the Summit.

It was one thing for it to be known that the Summit was to take place in a certain time frame and hosted at a certain place.

However as the Uprising had proven it was another altogether for someone like Valentine to know exactly where and when to strike to assassinate all of the high profile or high placed or highly powered or highly respected (since from what Alec could tell it was a bit of a mixed bag for what the scroll determined gave someone clout to sign a treaty) members of the Downworld plus any of the Clave representatives he happened to dislike.

_Not_ on his watch, thank you very much, not if he could prevent it.

Getting a call hours later, while his hand felt ready to fall off from his best calligraphy and he could draw the fire message rune in his sleep to send the summons to their recipients, from Jace to come and help save a newly-minted alpha werewolf was _very much_ not on his agenda.

He _swore to the Angel_ that if this was Clary Fray getting his sister and _parabatai_ neck-deep in bullshit he was going to scream.

“Jace where the _hell _are you?” Alec demanded as he – carefully, no sense in ruining a priceless magical object worth more than his _soul_ because he was frustrated with his _parabatai_ – rolled up the Alliance Scroll. Mentally he was torn in a dozen different directions. He hadn’t been surprised to find himself addressing and sending off a fire message summons for the Summit to Magnus Bane. Honestly he would’ve been shocked _not_ to send one to him. One of those directions had noted that his tablet hadn’t lit up with the alert of Jace’s team’s return. Another was how to keep the Scroll safe now that he was the sole person in the _world_ who knew the full attendee list. “You should’ve been back at the Institute hours ago.”

“It’s complicated: look.” Jace brushed off the worried aggravation – a tone he was almost numb to after being best friends and _parabatai_ to Alec “Big Brother to the World, My Switch is Always On, Saltier than a Saltine” Lightwood since they were preteens. “We won’t be back for awhile.”

“What, why, what happened?”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“Mom’s on the warpath, Jace.” Alec may have been locked away in his office but his tablet was still linked to the security system and he’d seen her pacing more than once outside his door and trying to get in only to be stymied by the runes and wards on it, getting angrier and angrier as no sign of him or Jace’s team was found. “You need to get back here, now.”

“No can do. Alec, I need your help?”

“What’s wrong, are you hurt, what’s happening?”

“No, Alec, I’m fine just listen.”

“Okay.”

“It’s Magnus he needs your powerful,” Jace held in a snicker. He didn’t know what’d been funnier. Magnus’s assumption that Alec was a virgin, the faces the others had made at Magnus’s assumption, or the looks they’d _all_ made when Izzy and Jace burst into laughter nearly to the point of tears and set them all straight. Good thing too. Since it seemed Magnus needed less _virgin shadowhunter energy_ and more _complementary_ shadowhunter energy which was apparently Alec. Personally, Jace didn’t want to be Magnus when – and it was when not if – his friend found out about the mistaken assumption. “Shadowhunter energy or something.”

“Magnus?” Alec frowned. “Why does Magnus need me?”

“To help Luke’s life. You know, Clary’s werewolf step-dad who might have the thing or a clue or whatever where the Mortal Cup is hidden?”

“Alright, alright.” Alec grabbed his leather jacket off his coat rack and shrugged into it, looking back at the scroll. Magnus – warlock. That…gave him an idea. “I’ll head over there but I’ll have to duck Mom so…”

“Just as soon as you can, yeah?”

“Yeah. Got it.”

They said goodbye then after a check of the security feed to plot his course out of the Institute and tucking the Scroll into his jacket pocket, the same one he’d hidden Magnus’s necklace in, he made another call.

“Stiles? It’s Alec. I need another favor…”

…

“Shit.”

“Fuck.”

Those were the considered opinions of both Alec and Stiles as the latter opened a portal – having picked up Alec and taken a priceless and _extremely_ sensitive magical item off his hands for safe keeping until after the Summit, Stiles not wanting it in the wrong hands anymore than Alec – that led from half a dozen blocks away from the Institute to the hallway outside of Magnus’s loft apartment and the two let themselves in the unlocked door.

No one, even the highest stickler, could blame them for the profanity at the sight that met them.

Clary was waiting and watching anxiously by a cauldron, Derek was passed out on the floor, and Magnus looked one step away from magical exhaustion as Luke Garroway, newly minted alpha werewolf, seized on the couch with only Magnus’s healing magics keeping him alive.

Alec ran over to Magnus, the two quickly forming a bond as the words _take what you need_ rang in Stiles’s ears like a death knell to his hopes of pursuing either of them as he glanced up. Ignoring the spike of pain in his chest, it wasn’t like he’d have had a shot with _either_ of them when the other was around and interested, being all pale skin, bone, and secrets, he crouched over Derek running a quick diagnostic on his friend then sighing in relief even as he steeled himself for what had to happen next. Moving with swiftness while everyone else was occupied with Jace and Isabelle returning with the needed ingredients for the counter to the alpha venom that Luke apparently wasn’t strong enough to fight off on his own, Stiles reached down and sent a shock of power through his fingers as they held Derek’s right ulna between his finger and thumb, snapping the bone with little effort.

A shockwave went through Derek as the others dealt with saving Luke, the bone break enough to kickstart Derek’s supernatural wolf-shifter healing into high gear, and a moment later the bone was snapping back together and his hazel eyes were fluttering open.

Just in time, naturally, for Raphael to show up and join the party as Luke had a touching “Clary/Luke” reunion with his step-brat.

Alright.

_Maybe_ Stiles was feeling a little snarky.

His _interests_ were apparently interested in each other, his best friend had been put in danger and then exhausted himself trying to save a sub-par alpha, Valentine’s men were apparently getting smarter and moving in groups too large for him to take out without possible collateral damage, and he was going to have to attend the _fucking Summit_.

He was allowed.

“What happened?” Raphael demanded, the three of them ignoring the touchy-feely _scene_ that was going on by the couch as Derek sat up using the two of them as backrests.

“Hey,” Derek reached up and smiled his sweet bunny-toothed smile that he tended to save for his vampire boyfriend. God, his uncle was never going to let him hear the end of it after all the razzing Derek gave him over Chris Argent's never-runed Nephilim status, for having a vampire love. And his mom was going to have _kittens_. But, if the last week had shown him anything, it was that Raphael was worth it. “I’m okay, love. I just outran my healing, Stiles fixed it.”

“Stiles fixed it by breaking your _bone_.” Jace tossed over from where he was looming like an attractive blond watchdog.

Derek just shrugged as Stiles explained.

“Shifter healing is different than werewolf.” He jerked his head towards the resident werewolf who was hugging it out this his kid. “Alpha wounds still take time to heal but they’re not like _that_. Derek drained himself by, I’m assuming, pulling Luke’s pain and helping his immune system focus on the venom instead.” He waited for Derek’s nod. “Which can _kill_ a wolf if they’re not careful. A major wound or bone breakage will force a shifter’s healing to kick in when it won’t for what it considers normal things – like being low on energy.”

“Good to know.” Izzy commented. “I’d never actually heard that before. We don’t see a lot of shifters on the East Coast.”

“Not surprised.” Derek chuckled as Stiles and Raphael babied him while he stood. Not that they really needed to. He was still a bit weakened but nothing like before. A meal and a nap and he’d be right as rain. “Too many people, not enough forests to run.”

While Magnus directed Jace and Clary on where to set up Luke to recover, shooting firm glances at Raphael that had the vampire looking away innocently, Izzy and Alec set to making the room right only to be stymied in their attempt by Stiles snapping his fingers and dealing with the obvious issues of blood and sending all the assorted detritus to either the kitchen for washing or banishing it entirely, leaving them rather at odds for what to do with themselves.

Though that question seemed quickly solved as Izzy started poking at Alec, as younger sisters do, at least until Jace was banished from the father-daughter reunion and back out into the loft’s living area.

“How are we going to handle this?” Jace asked with a sigh, crossing his arms over his chest. “Taking Luke to Magnus we can swing, that was on Derek’s insistence and I think that’ll cover us as far as the prohibition is concerned. But,” he looked back over his shoulder towards the guest room and shook his head. “There’s no _way_ we get Clary out of here and back to the Institute. Maryse is going to have an aneurysm.”

“Pack Law has nothing to say about it.” Derek was sure on that point. “Since Luke is my sponsor to his Pack as long as I reside in its territory, I had the authority as a pseudo packmember to take him to safety if I deemed it necessary and it was necessary.”

“There we go.” Jace started to move on, only to be interrupted by Alec’s unrelenting desire to cover every angle – which granted had saved their asses more than once.

“Can you guarantee that?”

“As the son of Talia Hale and David del Rey, yes, I can guarantee that.” Derek reminded the shadowhunters of who he _was_ in the Downworld – which was, basically, shifter royalty with his mom and dad’s brother both serving on the Shifter Council, of which his mother was the Head or Alpha. “You won’t have blowback from the Pack or either the Werewolf or Shifter Councils.”

“Good enough for me.” Alec decided having forgotten that bit about who Derek was. Which was easy to lose in the shuffle of so much else going on. “And she _is_ going back to the Institute.” His tone took no prisoners as he stared Jace and Izzy down. He wasn’t their brother in that moment he was their team lead and commander. “If I have to knock her out and haul her back _myself_, I am _not_ drawing heat or attention to us with the Clave’s Envoy at the Institute and Mom on the warpath. Not for some girl we barely know and isn’t even a shadowhunter.”

“Because you won’t give me any runes.” Clary burst in as she was shown out of Luke’s room to let him rest. “Or, or,”

“Or he’s right.” Stiles rolled his eyes. “Magnus can’t harbor a runaway from the Clave. Not as a warlock and not as a High Warlock and not as a member of the Warlock Council. Not with the way things are right now.” He eyed her up and down, giving Derek a _look_ that had him lifting his own and taking a very deliberate and precise step back and away from Clary. “Alec won’t _have_ to knock you out, I’ll easily toss you through a portal and onto the Institute’s front step if it keeps you from interfering in things you’re not even _close_ to understanding, little girl.”

“My name’s _not_ little girl, _Stiles_,” she hissed, eyes narrowed and filled with venom. “What is _with_ you lately?”

“What’s with me is that I’m a warlock of power you can’t comprehend with your little sheltered mind, fighting a war that’s been going on since before you were born, and I don’t have _time_ at the moment to play the snarky older mundane friend of your foolish little crush on Derek.” Stiles spat back, each point like missiles launched with unerring accuracy. “Frankly, I doubt you know anything of worth, let alone what we paid to regain your memories. You’re too much like your rash parents – especially your father’s bullheaded self-righteousness – for your mother to trust you with knowledge of the Cup.”

“Stiles,” Derek sighed, rubbing his face with his palm. “Morals. Thoughts that should be kept to ourselves. Empathy. Remember?”

Stiles just shrugged, turning to comment to the watching – but notably _not_ defending her – shadowhunters though the Lightwood girl at least seemed conflicted and the blond’s chivalry was thrumming just under the surface despite their leader's quite clear stance on where Clary Fray stood as far as the New York Institute was concerned.

“I’m a little more _non-human_ than most. Sometimes I need reminders.”

Which wasn’t quite the truth. More, it died little by little as he’d watched his people die because of entitlement. Spanish and American settlers wiping out the mundane half of his step-father’s tribe. Being hunted by half-baked Nephilim descendants. Wars. The Circle. All of it chipping away little by little until only the barest remnants of his humanity remained.

He grew colder and more remote with every loss.

Once Derek and Noah were gone…well.

His heart may very well die with them.

Some days, many of which had been more recent than not, he had a hard time remembering why that was a bad thing.

“Your mutt will be fine.” Stiles told Clary. “Between Derek and Magnus he’ll be as cloyingly paternal as ever come morning. You’re going back to the Institute. Your only options are whether it’s under your own steam with an escort or I toss you through a portal. If you think I’m playing,” he arched a brow. “Try me. Please. I haven’t got my quota of kicking Circle ass today and any Nephilim, even an untrained wannabe without runes, will do until I can get back to hunting.”

“You’re…” Clary stuttered, shaking her head as she slowly backed away from the warlock with eyes that began to glow and swirl hypnotically. “You’re _serious_. You really aren’t human at all, are you?”

“Not much.” Stiles shrugged. “They broke the mold when they made me. Poster child for not fucking with warlocks. And before you appeal to Magnus: don’t.” He warned her. “He’s the High Warlock of Brooklyn. He’s not going to take your side over mine when I’m keeping the Clave off our asses during a delicate political détente.”

Looking slowly around the room and not finding a single person that seemed to be on her side, Clary squared her shoulders and nodded, tears flooding her eyes, then whirled to say goodbye – for now, only for now – to Luke.

And, while everyone else was occupied, to ask him if he’d been the one to take the tarot cards her mom had painted for Dot from the wreckage of the store.

…

“Harsh, much?” Izzy scowled at Stiles after he finished checking over Derek and left him to the mercies of Magnus and his interrogation.

Stiles was getting the feeling that no one was particularly pleased with him – except maybe Alec but even he wasn’t happy that Stiles made a girl cry – but he found it hard to care.

He was bigger-picturing things while the others were getting mired in details and that was fine.

He had zero problem, as he just showed, playing the heavy or the bad guy or the villain.

Not if it kept the few people he cared about in this gods-forsaken world safe.

It wasn’t like any of them but Derek – and kinda Raphael – were his friends anyway, so it wasn’t like he even _lost_ anything. As the connection, he’d seen how easy it was for Magnus to pull from Alec and the _looks_ and whispers they’d shared, that was forming between the two proved, there was nothing here for him anyway _but_ Derek. Hunting the Circle might sate his bloodlust but it wouldn’t make anything better.

Magnus and the stability of the Accords talks _would_ and he wasn’t going to let them be ruined by Valentine Morganstern’s daughter.

As far as he was concerned – that was that.

Given that no one had actually _stopped him_ from reading Ms. Fray the riot act, he apparently wasn’t as out of line as they were trying to make out, since all it would’ve taken was a single order from Magnus or a request from either Derek – which _had_ originally halted him until Fray had started with him again – or Alec to muzzle him.

Everyone had either wanted to say it or say a version of it or wasn’t inclined to get in the way of it.

If _now_ they regretted not speaking up or doing something that was on them – not him.

…

Not wanting to deal with anymore drama, Alec stayed behind when the others left to get Clary back to the Institute or go recover.

Ostensibly he was staying until Luke was _completely_ in the clear but really he just needed a break.

And he didn’t want to listen to Clary once she found her tongue again.

“What kind of drink can I get you, Alexander?” Magnus asked as he poured himself a brandy, feeling very much in a _brandy_ mood after all the drama. “Whiskey, brandy, martini?”

“I’m not much of a drinker.” Alec dismissed. “Whatever is…fine.”

“Hmm,” Magnus hummed, going through the nerve-soothing motions of mixing a martini as Alec’s reaction not that would at least give him a direction to go if the tall-dark-and-handsome shadowhunter ever gave him another shot after tonight. Though – drinks and his company being preferable to the powder keg that was his companions, so things were looking up. “One martini.” He handed the glass over, Alec smiling that shy smile of his complete with head-duck when a snap of Magnus’s fingers had blue flame dancing over the surface of the alcohol for a moment. “Looks like we got those drinks after all. Only had to save a newly-minted alpha to manage it.”

He held out his brandy in expectation. “To us.”

Alec smiled then clinked glasses to Magnus’s toast. “Yeah, I guess we did.” Then immediately winced at the strong taste of alcohol. He normally stuck to beer when he went out looking for someone also interested in just a night of fun instead of something serious.

Then he had to ask: “Why did you ask for me? Jace, Clary, Izzy, they were all here.”

“Hmm,” Magnus blinked. “Jace didn’t tell you?”

Alec shook his head softly, watching Magnus with care "Nothing that was coherent."

“Doesn’t matter,” Magnus dismissed as he turned to look out over the Brooklyn skyline. “It was a lie anyway.” He reached back and fiddled with his ear cuff.

“Are all warlocks this cryptic?” It was a trait he’d noticed both of them were guilty of: Magnus and Stiles. Though _what_ they were cryptic or evasive about tended to be different.

“I’m not being cryptic,” Magnus smiled. “I’m being coy.” He turned back to Alec who was far too adorable in a worn black t-shirt and a day’s worth of exhaustion playing with his martini glass. “Let me spell it out for you,” he said with a sigh. “I wanted to see you again.”

Alec glanced away, far more nervous than he’d felt with an attractive man making his interest known since Mark Blackthorn when he was sixteen.

“Why?”

“Why’d you come?”

Thinking about it – really thinking about it – it was more than just that Jace asked, or it gave him a reason to meet with Stiles without drawing attention to it. It definitely wasn’t for Clary. He decided to be honest, far too tired to play games.

“I’m not sure.”

Magnus struggled with himself for a moment. He wasn’t an idiot. He saw the glances Stiles shot Alec and himself. He saw Alec looking back when Stiles was occupied with other things. Magnus couldn’t blame either of them for their interest in each other. They were the iconic class of European good looks with tall, strong forms, handsome faces, and dark hair. Both of them had moments of command - leadership, _power_ \- that were _ridiculously_ attractive.

But Alec…there was something about Alec.

Those hints of shyness, the facets that there’s something hidden under the duty and sardonic comments.

“For almost a century I’ve closed myself off from feeling anything for anyone. Man or woman. You’ve…unlocked something in me.” He admitted.

Before Alec could respond to the heartfelt words, his phone rang, and Magnus turned away with a sigh.

“Duty calls.”

“Ah, the furrowed brow,” Magnus arched a brow, playing with one of his many rings. “Maryse must be recruiting you for something unseemly.”

“Listen Magnus, I wish,” Alec struggled to explain. What did he say? That he’d never been in an actual relationship? He had no idea how to do…_any of this_? He was in his twenties and he didn’t know how to date? There were all kinds of things he _wanted_ to say. But unless it was something to do with his life as a shadowhunter he just didn’t know how to say it. Which apparently worked when picking up random guys who were “into the strong-silent-type thing” not so much when he had an impossibly beautiful warlock standing in front of him clearly wanting something more than a quick fuck who was into him for fuck-knows-what reason and Alec was utterly unable to just _talk_ to him. “I just, I uh, I don’t know-”

He trailed off as Magnus raised one perfectly painted finger up to his lips then whisked it away to the side, his eyes drawn to it like magnets as he smiled helplessly.

“I understand.” Magnus reassured him, then picked up the barely-touched martini. “Stay for one more drink? Something you might actually enjoy? And then decide.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For more information about my stories (fanfic and original) find me on Facebook at: https://www.facebook.com/sif.shadowheart
> 
> Or follow me on Twitter: https://twitter.com/AbramsSif


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heads up: we're about to head into a series of chapters (9, 10, 11, 12) that are all varying in political intensity. There's a lot of background, some of it more important than others and the Accords Summit, etc. It's a very behind-the-scenes series of chapters focusing on the political background of the Shadow World. We'll be back into the full-swing of the story again in chapter 13 but this is a necessary detour to push forward and set up some of the plot/story.

** Hunter’s Bane **

**Chapter Nine: Fallen and Forsaken**

_Just one drink_ – a whiskey sour that Magnus was right, he did enjoy more than the martini but still wasn’t something he’d order for himself – turned into passing out from exhaustion on Magnus’s couch after what might’ve been minutes or hours just _talking_ with an ease Alec never had with new people. Alec woke up with Magnus resting on his shoulder, looking soft and relaxed and _trusting_ and far too beautiful for Alec’s peace of mind and made something warm and tingly grow and settle deep inside him, putting down roots that he was certain would never completely disappear even if they ended _whatever-this-was_ tomorrow and had the potential to grow and bloom into something truly wonderful. Waking up which turned into having coffee and more conversation which turned into Alec running out of the loft in a panic at the sight of _dozens_ of missed calls and texts on his phone.

And a promise for dinner after the Summit.

Neither of them were fooling themselves: managing to have drinks together was a fluke. If it weren’t for Luke’s near-death, neither of them would’ve been involved or had a chance to see each other that night. Still, things were good.

Better than good.

Because while they didn’t have time for an actual _date_ – fuck, Alec was going to go on an actual _date_ with a _guy_ a guy who was gorgeous and powerful and _Magnus Bane_ – they did manage to text at least.

Case in point: Magnus’s pithy commentary on the Clave Council would get him in _so_ much trouble if any of it popped into his head and out his mouth during his next meeting with any of them.

And he _seriously_ hoped the Seelie Queen couldn’t read minds because what Magnus had to say about her envoy and trusted knight Meliorn – who wasn’t Alec’s favorite person _anyway_ with the on-again off-again _thing_ he had with Izzy – would be sure to piss her off and make any hope of a treaty going through crash and burn.

Thankfully, though Luke didn’t have the tarot cards Clary thought contained the Mortal Cup, and they still had no leads on where her mother was being held, the week before the Summit passed with relative calm aside from his mother being, well, _his mother_.

Alec _wished_ he felt that was a good sign but every instinct he had was shouting that it was just the calm before the storm.

Which of course, was why he was less-than-surprised to get a call from Luke regarding an attack on Luke at the Jade Wolf the night before the Summit was due to commence.

…

Alec was surprised to be sent out on a mission to talk to Luke at the Jade Wolf but more surprised that Ms. Branwell “call me Lydia” had preempted his mother in joining him instead of sending Izzy who was their trained forensic scientist when it came to all things Shadow World.

He wasn’t sure _what_ that was about, pure joy of spiting someone who’d made life difficult for her over the last several days or just wanting a break from the tense atmosphere of the Institute, but it was odd.

With the Summit the next day, he’d have thought having one of them remain in the Institute to supervise would make sense but as more and more Clave members arrived from Alicante – including his father and younger brother which all of them were happy about since Max spent most of his time at the Academy located at the Mumbai Institute anymore – she was within her rights to delegate supervision over to one of the other members of the Inquisitor or Consul’s staff.

Having the entirety of the Clave Council except for a pair of members to manage administrative duties remaining in Idris, housed in the guest wing of the Institute was _not_ doing good things for his mother’s nerves.

Having Clary running around with only Jace and Izzy to wrangle her was even worse, especially since Luke at the moment couldn’t spare much time to come by and talk to her, being busy getting his Pack in order after the power turnover and his recovery from the alpha venom and wounds on top of his day job as a police detective for the NYPD.

The trip to the restaurant was quiet, Alec buried in his phone and trading texts with Magnus – who was at the final “polishing” of the new Accords treaty before the Summit and _should_ be paying attention but was _over it_ as the warlock said since he was going to have to go through it all and more again tomorrow, neither of them pretending that they both didn’t know he was one of the leaders chosen by the Scroll – and Lydia lost in her own thoughts.

They’d had a moment of connectedness a couple days before, Alec feeling like Lydia really _got him_, after she revealed his mother had been shopping for a wife for him – _again_ – despite his explicit wishes and his reputation of being _abnormal_. Or as Izzy put it: _hopelessly gay_. To the point that even _thoughts_ about anything sexual to do with females and female _parts_ was instantly libido-killing. According to Lydia, he was being painted as “young” and “sowing his oats” to the too-young-to-know-better set of girls – and their mothers that wanted the Lightwood name more than they cared about their daughters marrying someone with Alec’s _perversion_ an open secret. The Clave leadership, and his mother, were apparently working hard at framing him as bisexual, which did nothing good for his feelings about either since they all knew otherwise.

Maybe that moment of understanding each other – Lydia, who’d married for love and Alec who refused to marry at all – had been why she’d wanted to join him in investigating the attack on Luke.

Whatever it was, he could think of a _lot_ better bonding activities than crouching over a decaying body and trying to figure out _what the fuck_ it was.

“It’s got some characteristics of a Forsaken,” Lydia mused as Luke played with his freshly wrapped and bandaged wound on his hand and Alec studied the corpse. “It was human.” She turned its head to get a better look at the curvature of neck meeting shoulder. “It was runed.”

“I don’t know.” Luke said, thinking over the puzzle that the thing presented. He’d never seen anything like it. “It was more focused, more determined. It attacked like it had a plan.” He rose. “Plus,” and this last was the kicker. “A normal Forsaken wouldn’t be so hard to kill. It took five wolves to take it down. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“We’ll take the body back to the Institute.” Lydia decided. “Do a full autopsy.”

“Whoa.” Luke spoke, stopping Ms. In Charge in her tracks. “Hold up, I get that I called you. Actually,” he corrected. “I called Alec despite the prohibition because I trust him.” Kid did help save his life, and without the hefty price tag Magnus put on his own help – which Luke got, if anyone thought a High Warlock was using his magic on the behalf of another Downworld leader or _worse_ a Nephilim for free during the prohibition, there’d be hell to pay from the other warlocks –, no matter what Clary had to say about Alec’s attitude. She just didn’t have the perspective Luke had about what it was like to be raised with the sort of burden on his shoulders: family, honor, duty, leadership, and so much more that had been dumped on Alec from a young age if he knew anything about Robert or Maryse. Honestly, considering Luke’s contemporaries and Alec’s parents, the kid was better adjusted than he had any right to be. “That wasn’t an invitation for someone to come down here and just take over.”

Alec had a salty comment for that but held it in. Lydia hadn’t pissed him off other than riling up his mother by her mere presence. No need to irritate more females surrounding him than happened just by being himself and the position he held on a day-to-day basis. If he was making Izzy happy, he was pissing off his mother. If he was making his mother happy, Izzy took it as him being spineless or whatever. There was no winning when it came to being in between two women who’d decided that they didn’t want to get along or were offended by the mere existence of each other.

“Look,” Lydia back peddled a little bit, given that she had no authority outside of being a shadowhunter in New York. If she’d been sent to do an official audit or step into leadership temporary for the New York Institute that would be a different story. “I know I can be abrasive. But we’re all on the same side here.”

“The Institute does have the resources to find out what this thing is.” Alec pointed out mildly, taking care not to step on the toes of the new alpha in front of wounded members of his pack and those caring for them. “Including an expert forensic pathologist, highly trained and knowledgable in the biology of all the denizens of the Shadow World.”

There was a long pause, Luke trading a measured look with Alec.

“Fine.” Luke nodded to Alec, ignoring his _abrasive_ companion. “Let me know what you find, Second Lightwood.”

“Will do, Alpha Garroway.” Alec nodded back, crouching and looking at the creature’s hands. “You think Valentine was behind this?” He asked the obvious question as Lydia made the call for a team to come pick up the body for examination and autopsy.

“No question. It’s definitely his work.”

Given that Luke – back when he was Lucian Graymark – was Valentine’s _parabatai_, he’d know.

More importantly, he was a resource Alec wasn’t afraid to use when it came to stopping the Circle before more innocent people were hurt or killed.

“What do you think he’s after?”

“Honestly?” Luke huffed a humorless laugh. “Me.”

Lydia turned back to the conversation at that. “So you think Valentine’s going after ex-Circle members.”

“I don’t know, might be kinda personal.” Luke could admit that much. “We have a complicated past. But,” he sighed. “He could just be going against the old crew. Valentine loved to hold a grudge. He’d have one against anyone who turned against him.”

“Good thing we’ve increased security at the Institute,” Lydia commented. “But extra wards can’t hurt with the Summit tomorrow.”

“Right,” Alec though of Stiles’s first visit to the Institute and his reaction to a certain someone. “For Hodge.”

“And your parents.” Lydia reminded him. Only to stop and take a mental step back at the flicker of surprise that crossed Alec’s face at her words, finding herself almost speechless. “Did they…conceal that from you?”

A muscled ticked in Alec’s jaw, Alec flicking a look between Lydia and Luke’s serious expressions, then spun on his heel.

He couldn’t be there right now.

He’d wait for the transport outside, where the air at least didn’t stink of corpse and his parent’s lies.

…

If the trip to the Jade Wolf was quiet, the trip _back_ was silent and glacial as Alec spun Lydia’s words – and Luke’s lack of denials – around and around in his head.

It was the missing piece.

The thing that had ruined the Lightwood name that he’d never known the cause of, that now that he knew _everything_ made sense.

His impulse was to rush and confront his parents – or reach for his phone and call Magnus – but he didn’t really need confirmation from the latter and he wasn’t Jace or Izzy so he wasn’t about to do the former when it would only make matters _worse_ with everything else going on.

Instead he tucked it away, like he did everything that got in the way of him doing his job, like his remembering Stiles muttering about _Lightwoods_ in that strange language of his or how he went from warm and even a bit flirtatious to cold and biting in the seconds it took for an official introduction, like _everyone_ – shadowhunter or downworlder – who’d ever reacted similarly.

Of everyone he’s ever met, only Magnus Bane had never treated him differently or taken a mental step back when he’d heard his last name.

And now he knew why everyone but Magnus had done so beyond him coming from a Nephilim legacy stretching back a thousand years.

Now he knew where it all came from: his father’s insistence that everything he do be perfect, like his mother being impossible to please and always having a backhanded compliment for all of her children _but_ Jace – the only one who didn’t bear the Lightwood name – like their obsession with “restoring” their family’s honor like it was something their children had done, like having a gay son and a shadowhunter for a daughter instead of an Alicante debutante, that had ruined their family and not that their parents were _genocidal bigots_ who turned against the Clave…

Before his thoughts could spiral farther down, Alec focused on the task at hand. The one he’d complete to the best of his ability. And then the next. And then the next. Until his day was over and he could retreat into his room and scream into the silenced space or go and beat on a punching bag or practice with weapons until he wasn’t thinking anymore until he _couldn’t_ think anymore until… Right. Focus. Task at hand.

Lydia was talking, he’d better pay attention.

Who knows what she might say _next_ that will shatter the very foundations of his world?

“We have to confirm that no magic was used in making this thing.” Lydia said, frowning as she watched Alec examine it while lost in thought. “With the Summit can we call in the nearest High Warlock for a consult?”

“Magnus Bane?” Alec frowned, then said slowly, raising his eyes to meet hers. “No, we’d better not. He’s part of the Warlock Council and they’ve all been busy with the negotiations. I think…” His frown deepened as he tried to remember _which_ of the High Warlocks that split responsibility for New York City between the boroughs between them _would_ be available. “It will have to be Catarina Loss. She’s the High Warlock over Manhattan but can be hard to reach from what I remember.”

The Institute usually only called in Loss on the highest-priority healing needs but she was still quite powerful and competent from what he recalled without having her file in front of him.

Lydia sighed a little, let down. “Shame, I was hoping to meet him while I was here.”

“Magnus?” Alec asked, already sending a request for his mother to call in Loss for a consult from the Head of the Institute to the High Warlock of Manhattan, one of the only ways to get around the prohibition without getting smacked down for it. Though with negotiations wrapping up – and from the little Magnus dropped in hints here and there _not_ looking like a total disaster though the Clave was sure to disagree at having to make _any_ concessions let alone the number Magnus was hinting at – it shouldn’t be as big of a deal as it would’ve been even a few days before. “Why’s that?”

“You know him.” Lydia’s excitement over _the_ Magnus Bane, co-inventor of the stable portal who’d helped revolutionize the spellwork so it wasn’t nearly as draining overcoming her hesitation with Alec’s returned prickliness. Not that she could blame him. That was one hell of a bomb she’d dropped on him, even though in certain circles it was well known about the Lightwoods’ past.

Alec nodded, shyness rearing its head. “A little.”

“Do you know him _well_?” She pressed, curiosity roused. Though it made sense that Alec as the acting head of the Institute would be better versed in his closest High Warlock than one that was farther away like Loss.

“Eh, just a little.” Alec evaded again, not certain, exactly, where he even stood with the older man other than _interested_.

Or, kinda, maybe hopelessly infatuated but meh. He wasn’t thinking about that at the moment. He didn’t have _time_ to think about it being more than mutual interest at the moment. Case in point: weird-not-Forsaken awaiting autopsy.

“Did you my great-ancestor, Henry Branwell, who was the _last_ of the Branwells to run an Institute, and Magnus Bane _invented_ the portal as its used today?” Her bright grin faded as Alec straighter and just stared at her, walls coming up and bars slamming down in an instant.

“No.” Alec told her. “Just add that to the list of things _I_ didn’t know.” He pushed away from the exam table. “I’ll have the body moved to Izzy’s lab, a message has been sent to Loss. Further tests on the body will have to wait for her arrival. Excuse me.”

…

“Well, this doesn’t look promising.” Stiles commented as he made his way via tracking spell to where Alec was located – which happened to be his bedroom, beating the shit out of a punching bag – and bypassed the runes on the door with laughable ease. He supposed they just didn’t teach shadowhunters like they used to. Or his mom was just that good. Maybe both. His mom was a badass who taught him everything she knew, even if she was never willing to risk him by finding out he couldn’t withstand having runes applied to his body the hard way. “Rough day?”

Alec turned, scowling and sweat pouring down his face and bare upper body, hands wrapped but without gloves, startled at who was waiting in the doorway.

When it came to people with enough balls and lack of respect of his privacy to bulldoze pass his lock, he expected one of his family members not a warlock who for the love of the angel _shouldn’t_ be able to just waltz through the Institute while it was on high alert undetected and yet – there he was, bold as brass, and…staring at his upper body.

Which was bare.

And sweaty.

And Stiles _was not_ one of his family members, or sparring buddies, or even Magnus.

He needed a shirt.

ASAP.

Reaching out, blushing deep red, Alec snagged the zip-up vest hoodie he’d tossed on the end of his bed before he started trying to work himself into a deep enough exhaustion that he’d actually sleep instead of seethe all night with the Summit coming up the next day.

“Right, I’m back.” Stiles blinked, shaking his head to shake off his hot-guy-daze. You’d think after growing up the way he did in the wilds of Northern California with a pack of native wolf shifters and for the last twenty-some years being best friends with Derek I’m-Allergic-to-Shirts Hale that Derek picked up from his own loathing of the clothing item, he’d be immune to the well-sculpted male chest but _no_. Sadly, that was an immunity he showed no signs of building anytime soon. “Sorry,” he apologized at the deeply-blushing shadowhunter. “Didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. Right. Focus. So,” he clapped his hands together. “About those favors you owe me…”

“I’m not going to like this am I?” Alec sighed, grabbing a towel and wiping the sweat from his face and neck.

“No, probably not.” Stiles was honest about that. “Not until afterwards. Then you’ll be glad you did it. But until then I’m almost one hundred percent certain it’s going to turn you into a ball of angst.”

“Great. Just what I always wanted to hear on the eve of the biggest day of my life.” Unless he was made Head or higher up even in the Clave or got married somehow despite being gay or adopted a kid. Those would trump hosting the Accords signing. But for now: definitely biggest day. “Alright,” he sighed. Because this was apparently his life now and he’d been the one to make the deal. “What do you need me to do?”

…

“You know this is above and _beyond_ a pain in the ass, right?” Alec complained – and felt zero guilt for doing so, Stiles had it coming – to the warlock who’d called in his owed favors alright.

Called them in to make the Summit _safer_ for those involved.

Ward stones for the room to be activated once everyone is actually there. A barrier on the only entrance to the chapel that isn’t locked down with every precaution known to either of them. Said barrier only being able to be passed via enchanted rings that Stiles would then pass to the representatives once they signed the Alliance Scroll, confirming their identity – something he didn’t even know it could _do_. It made sense for a bunch of paranoid warlocks, several of whom at the time the Scroll was enchanted predated the creation of the Nephilim by Raziel, though how many of those same warlocks were still alive he wasn’t certain.

Aldous Nix at least was known to have died in 1929, even if he was the only one of the true ancients of the warlock race confirmed dead in the last two hundred years.

It always shook Alec’s worldview a little when he remembered that fact.

_Many_ members of the Shadow World remembered, were _alive_, before Johnathon Shadowhunter called out to the Angel Raziel for help to defeat the demonic incursion upon the earth.

If rumors were to be believed, there were a handful of warlocks, one or two vampires, most of the Seelie, and _all_ of the Unseelie who predated the Nephilim’s entire _race_.

Put in that perspective, Alec wasn’t surprised in the least that many of them had _issues_ – to say the least – with the Nephilim, particularly the Clave Council.

He didn’t think Stiles was that old – but that said, he wouldn’t be surprised if Magnus was, based on how each of them talked about Nephilim in general and the Circle in particular.

“I know,” Stiles grinned smugly at Alec where they waited like a pair of mundane maître d’hotels for guests to begin arriving, complete with a podium containing the Alliance Scroll and a gold-tipped fountain pen for the attendees to use as they signed the Scroll and confirmed both their identities and purpose for joining them in affirming the newest round of treaties to govern the Shadow World. “But when we don’t have to worry about providing Valentine with _quite_ the target rich environment you’ll thank me.” His grin turned teasing. “Twenty bucks says Magnus is fashionably late.”

Alec snorted softly, hiding a laugh as the Clave members who were included: the Consul, Inquisitor, and an Envoy from both the Iron Sisters and the Silent Brothers as well as an additional Brother to serve as official scribe; all arrived at the same time and precisely at the time required by their summons.

Which was intentional on Alec’s part.

Of everyone, the Clave was the stickiest point, and having them arrive first and take their places in the chapel around the massive round table conjured by Stiles and enchanted with unchangeable assigned seats as demanded by the Scroll seemed like the best option for everyone involved. Alec had intentionally staggered the times, keeping groups together, and those groups known to ally with each other arriving close together and – hopefully – buffered by more neutral parties. At least until he could follow through on Stiles’s other favor and raise the wards to prevent an attack from without.

He’d worry about within once they got there.

“I see you used it after all,” Consul Dieudonne noted the golden scroll with a look Alec couldn’t decipher. “Excellent.”

Behind the Clave members, guards fanned out, the shadowhunters taking up position in the chapel atrium.

They were likely only the first who would do so, but thankfully it wasn’t Alec’s part of the proceedings to worry about Seelie knights and Nephilim getting into a brawl in the hallway – that was Lydia’s job while Alec was hosting, and he’d never been happier to delegate a task in his life.

“No ink?” The Consul asked, picking up the fountain pen and finding the line next to his engraved name on the scroll.

“The scroll is enchanted to confirm your identity via signature.” Alec explained. “You won’t be needing ink.”

And he didn’t, Dieudonne’s brow lifting in surprise as the seemingly simple pen carved flawlessly into the soft gold of the scroll, his signature flourishes and all identical to dozens of the same on documents all over his office and in the Clave archives.

As he lifted the pen, the Scroll flashed gold, Stiles handing over a ring as the Consul set the pen back in its holder which – though he didn’t know it – was also enchanted though this time by Ragnor Fell to cleanse it of the Consul’s energies before the next user handled it.

“Your pass through the wards,” Stiles explained, looking like an unfamiliar shadowhunter in his long-sleeved black shirt and black leather pants and boots with a weapon’s belt around his hips. A small fiction and one that wasn’t passing completely under the radar as he felt the heavy observation of both of the Silent Brothers present as they waited their turns. “It’s timed.” Stiles added drily, arching a brow as the Consul loitered behind. “You have thirty seconds more before it locks you out.”

With that the Consul huffed and strode through the open chapel doors, seeming to pass through a thin film as he did so though there was no visible barrier on the open archway with the wide double doors spread and propped open.

The Inquisitor merely pursed her lips – at the flagrant use of magic if Stiles had to guess, he knew _all about_ Imogen Herondale – then followed her counterpart, the Envoys from the Iron Sisters and Silent Brothers not far behind her, though the scribe, Brother Zachariah according to the Scroll, tilted his head as he rolled the pen between long fingers for a moment before signing with a flourish and joining the others.

Alec and Stiles both let out relieved breaths.

The hard part was finished.

Now they just had to make sure that none of the other representatives threw hissy fits before the wards could be raised.

…

“I was right,” Stiles sing-songed after all but Magnus had arrived in timely fashion for the Summit.

Well.

Him and the Fae.

The Seelie had been planned to arrive – according to Alec – directly after the Druids and before the Unseelie but instead the Queen with her entourage, only two of whom were allowed into the meeting chamber with her, one of her Knights Meliorn and one of her advisors/attendants named Collette, a good twenty minutes passed the time of her scheduled arrival and almost on top of the vampires.

Stiles had only snorted and rolled his eyes, Alec shooting him an appalled look as more than one of the Seelie knights who’d been forced by the security measures to remain in the atrium and surrounding halls scowling at him in response.

His: “_Oh, please, she’s not _nearly_ as important as she thinks she is_,” had almost started a riot among the knights, with only the ringing reminder from a strident and stressed Lydia keeping them from attacking Stiles right then and there.

_Warlocks_.

As for the Unseelie, Stiles had had a thing or two to say about them as well when they failed to arrive on time.

“_They’re not mortal, Alec, and they never have been. When humanity first met them they didn’t know _what_ they were other than Other and the closest things they’d seen before to match them were the Seelie but they were as ever very much_ not_ Seelie at the same time. Of all the people meeting under the aegis of peace, it’s the Unseelie Princes and the Djinn you need to be the most wary of. Their minds work in ways incomprehensible to mortals. Their plans aren’t made with the idea of _years_ but play out over the span of _eons._ Any one of them, even the youngest, would make the Seelie Queen look like a child in comparison. They’ll arrive when they mean to arrive and not a moment sooner.”_

Alec had still been working through that bit of advice when the warlocks arrived sans Magnus.

One, a deceptively plain woman whose deep black eyes seemed to carry the weight of ages, had darkly bronzed skin and wore the asp scales Mark over her cheekbones and scattered across the rest of her skin with pride. Nefertari, High Warlock of Alexandria, who once was the wife of a living god. Alec had to admit, he’d – like with the djinn – been deeply relieved when she’d moved on into the meeting chamber without comment.

While _he’d_ lost another year off his life thanks to meeting another ancient who weighed and measured him in a moment, Stiles had been greeting another warlock, one with an even more obvious Mark than Nefertari.

Green skin, horns, and talons on his hands that had an extra joint, Ragnor Fell was one of the class of warlocks that could not be in mundane or mixed society without a glamor.

That didn’t stop him from apparently being well enough acquainted with Stiles to get a hug from the normally restrained warlock, the two greeting each other with smiles and jokes as if they hadn’t seen each other in decades rather than days.

“Magnus late then?” Ragnor had rolled his eyes extravagantly at the lack of his friend’s signature on the scroll, then shot Stiles a _look _at some of the other names found on it even as he set his own mark on the beaten gold. “Hmm. Should be _quite_ the time then.”

Stiles had shooed the horned warlock – _my mentor_, he’d told Alec – through the barrier and that had been that.

Now they were finished will all but their late arrivals and Alec was wondering how long they _should_ wait before giving up and continuing even though it would exclude one of the major players in the Shadow World – though that might actually get him approval from the Inquisitor and protests from just about everyone else.

Before Alec could do more than scowl over the issue, a portal opened in the atrium – because of course it did – and out stepped Magnus dressed to kill in elegant style turned over the top thanks to his cascading necklaces, highlight-and-eyeliner-heavy makeup, and bright blue highlights in his hair that matched the embroidered designs on his black jacket.

“Sorry I’m late.” Magnus smirked at the near-identical deadpans he was getting from the pair flanking the podium.

“No you’re not.” Alec wrinkled his nose and looked away from the _deeply wounded_ expression that Magnus gave him at that.

Stiles coughed before the pair could devolve into flirtatious banter that he saw coming a mile away and had no desire to be caught as a spectator to, having his interests interested – and apparently now invested – in each other was bad enough without having to _watch_ it.

He had plenty of kinks but he’d never been an emotional masochist or a glutton for that kind of punishment, thanks.

“Just sign the Scroll, Magnus.” Alec told him, handing over the pen. “Before the wolf shifters and the werewolves team up to kill that Marcel St. Cloud character with the vampires.”

Because given the barbs that Deucalion Blackwood had been shooting at the vampire thanks to the Seelie Queen’s little power-play of being late, Alec couldn’t say that it wasn’t out of the question.

“Oh,” Magnus winced, complying with visible reluctance at the mention of St. Cloud. “Marcel is here?” He cursed under his breath, muttering to himself:_ should’ve written in a few exclusions to the spell…_

“Mhmm.” Stiles handed over the ward key, Magnus studying it for a long moment before lifting his brow and giving the younger warlock an approving nod.

Much was said about the abilities of Ragnor’s protégé.

In this at least, his ability with protective wards, they hadn’t been overstated.

It was as Magnus passed through the wards that he felt it – a sudden chill rushing over his back, the warlock spinning and facing the atrium behind him – and then he saw _them_.

“What is it, Magnus?” Ragnor asked, leaving Nefertari with the djinn – as if she needed _his_ company in the first place as powerful as she was but his mother had raised him a gentleman – and coming to greet his oldest friend.

He didn’t answer, merely staring out beyond the wards as the rest took his silent cue and did the same.

It wasn’t a fluke: they _were_ here.

Standing shoulder-to-shoulder with massive wings blocking out the view of everything behind them, they were so beautiful that it both drew the eye and threatened to mesmerize but at the same time repulsed the gaze of mortals as their hindbrains shrieked that the creature in front of them was _not_ like them and if they wished to survive they should run and hide or do anything they could to avoid drawing the creatures’ attention or ire.

“The Unseelie Princes.” Magnus breathed out, shaking his head as he shoved down his demonic instincts that much like a mortal screamed that a predator was near. And it was right.

As was Stiles.

The Unseelie were only called _Unseelie_ because the mortals who first encountered them in human memory didn’t know what they were other than they weren’t like them and the closest thing to them they’d encountered were the Seelie – but the Unseelie were very much not the same as the Seelie either.

They were colder, harder, harsher.

They spoke in a language that was high and tinkling and pierced the mind of any mortal who heard it.

They were warriors, soldiers, and if you were a demon: they were your end.

They were the Fallen.

Lucifer’s own sons and legions who had followed their commander in pursuit of Samael and his own forces when they fled heaven in hopes that the angels – being banned from leaving the host – would not follow.

Only Lucifer and his own put their duty before their orders, following those that became the first demons: the Lords and the Princes of Hell, down to the terrestrial plane and casting them out, locking them away in Pandemonium, the Void, and the other demonic planes such as Edom and forever more barring their way between their prisons and the rest of creation.

In some planes they lost the worlds to the demonic forces.

In others they held the line.

And in _this_ plane for eons they had ignored all the battles and manipulations and decisions of their once-brothers of heaven to create the Nephilim.

Until _now_.

Magnus still hadn’t discovered what had drawn the attention of the Princes, the ultimate rulers of the Fae and all the Fallen and their descendants – such as the Seelie – to their little corner of creation but he knew one thing after watching the Queen squirm under the gaze of Prince Ailill with his chestnut and cream wings, who or whatever it was, he had never been _more_ thankful that for once it _wasn’t_ him.

He would, however, be more than willing to conjure a cocktail and _watch_ as they tore apart whoever it was to have been such _utter idiots_ as to incense or invoke the Fallen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For more information about my stories (fanfic and original) find me on Facebook at: https://www.facebook.com/sif.shadowheart
> 
> Or follow me on Twitter: https://twitter.com/AbramsSif
> 
> I also did a *thing* (because you all know how I am) that is an actual WIP in Shadowhunters and finally posted it last night if you're at all interested in a Dark!Alec time-travel a/u: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21729799


	10. Chapter 10

** Hunter’s Bane **

**Chapter Ten: Royal Prerogative**

The representatives of the Shadow World could only watch – and _fear_ – as one by one the Princes signed the Alliance Scroll, each standing to the side and waiting, not yet taking a ring to pass through the wards though, curiously, neither did Stiles who some knew and others didn’t wasn’t the Shadowhunter he was disguised as.

Alec and Stiles exchanged words that they couldn’t hear, though Alec’s _“Really, Stiles?”_ face needed no explanation or verbal confirmation.

A prompting gesture from the shorter of the pair, then Alec signed his name.

And at last to the surprise of some, shock of others, and amusement of Ragnor Fell and Talia Hale in particular, Stiles took the pen in turn and signed his own.

In unison the Princes took their rings and passed through the wards, Alec and Stiles one step behind the high arches of their wings, the Alliance Scroll held between them and the massive doors to the currently repurposed chapel slamming shut behind them. The pair turned, no longer silenced by the barrier ward, and held out their hands, between the long span of their extended arms and the scroll between them able to create an unbroken line between one side of the door frame to the other as the Princes blocked the way from any _ill-advised_ attempts to stop them from whatever it was they were doing.

Magic, was the answer to that, as a language only a few present recognized as Enochian poured out from between their lips and a crash of power clapped overhead.

Those magically inclined felt a sudden jarring, everyone else simply feeling unsettled, and then they dropped their arms and turned.

And then _all hell_ broke loose at the first completely unglamored look at Stiles anyone had ever gotten in years – and gasps sounded.

Stiles wasn’t the _only_ one who’d lost his glamor – or any other active magics – when the wards were raised.

Oh no.

It was _every last one_ of them.

Though he couldn’t blame them for making him the center of attention – when they were able to pull their gazes away from his brothers anyway.

Three pairs of wings – identical to a seraphim’s pride and joy – each in a different color added to glowing golden eyes_ was_ distracting.

Though if he had to choose, he rather thought seeing the Seelie Queen in all her _natural_ glory, mousey brown hair and watery green eyes and all, was rather the highlight – right after Magnus Bane’s entrancing golden cat eyes anyway.

Before someone – like, oh, the Seelie Queen or anyone from the Clave – could jump them a new spectacle stole their attention.

Or rather split it.

Because as entertaining as Etaín’s tantrum was, most of them – with a few exceptions – found the sight of three terrifying, glorious, Fallen Princes suddenly fluttering around Stiles with his six wings and long-suffering expression, words such as “preening” “disgraceful” and “you _could_ portal and visit you know” was far more fascinating.

And as the implications crashed over their heads with all the grace of the wards stripping away active magics, nothing short of _boggled _disbelief.

…

“_Mister_ Lightwood.” Inquisitor Herondale hissed as she stormed up to him, Alec tucking the Alliance Scroll away. “_What_ is the meaning of this?”

“Perhaps you should ask the Consul, Inquisitor, or your envoy when the wards are lifted.” Alec countered deadpan. “The Consul’s office after all _strongly suggested_ that as the nominated host of the Summit that I use the Alliance Scroll, as delivered by your envoy Ms. Branwell, and that I should take all available security measures to ensure the safety of the representatives and the smooth progression of the Accords.” He lifted his brows in expectation his _good little soldier mask _firmly in place. “I have done so, _as ordered_.”

“And those security measures.” Magnus tore himself away from the various Fae contretemps – not entirely certain if he found Etaín’s tantrum or the Princes _fussing_ over Stiles more entertaining – in preference for a bit of clarification from Alexander. “Have the power to strip away and prevent glamors?” Magnus asked, raising one hand and snapping only to have his magic fail to respond. “Or other magics for that matter?”

He’d already spotted the ward stones inset into the chapel walls and used his sense for magic to see if they were all encompassing and from what he could tell they were – which might be problematic.

The Clave representatives, which while only including a single active Shadowhunter in Alexander but he wouldn’t rush to dismiss the abilities of shadowhunters who survived long enough to make it to the offices of Consul or Inquisitor, currently had an advantage over several of the Downworlders if their abilities were likewise hindered and they still could use their runes and other angelic weapons.

He trusted Alexander with _himself_.

That didn’t mean that his people and his friends were safe as well.

Or that the Clave hadn't made a deal under the table with the apparently-part-Unseelie warlock hybrid mess that was Stiles if he was reading the situation with the Princes correctly to screw everyone else over if they delivered Valentine’s head on a platter to him.

Not that that was what he believed was going on but one didn’t survive a century in Edom or live as long on the terrestrial plane as Magnus has without considering _all_ the angles.

“You’d have to ask Stiles about the details,” Alec admitted. “The warding is his. A protected neutral containment field to keep any _actual_ fighting from breaking out while the final wording of the newest treaty is negotiated and to prevent any outside interference including attacks. That was the deal.”

“No need,” Ragnor smiled wickedly having done an examination of his own. “I recognize some of the warding. He – well, _they_ I’m assuming from the little show that the Shadowhunter helped – nudged us just a _fraction_ out of space-time into a void field. We’re here – but not - all at the same time. Cut off from our home dimension and plane until the wards are brought back down.” He turned his head to look at the gaggle of winged ethereal creatures chiming in that strange language of theirs and ignoring the existence of everyone else. “Which from the signature, only Stiles can do.”

Eyes wide, the representative from the Iron Sisters whipped out her stele and traced a quick rune on the back of her hand, letting out a little shriek when it failed to darken or light up as it activated.

“He neutered you.” Talia let out a snicker, her head _thunking_ down onto the table as she lost herself in laughter. “I _really_ love that warlock.”

“He does have a particular sense for the ironic.” Ragnor admitted. “Well,” he clapped his hand together sharply. “No good to be done fussing over it. Let’s get this over as painlessly as possible so we can all get our powers back, yes?”

“_Yes_.”

…

“So, what are we thinking, hmm?” Magnus said under his breath to Ragnor – who seemed to be the _only_ person in the room not shaken at the sight of a warlock whose Mark was an almost perfect, if it weren’t for there being three sets of wings instead of only one, copy of the wings of the Unseelie princes or their completely out of character _cooing_ over him. “Younger brother, nephew, son?”

As all they were missing now that everyone was seated, including the Unseelie who at with mere inches between them on the two long low backless chaises that they, and now Stiles who sat beside Prince Draethan, were provided to account for their wings at the table. Alexander had stepped forward and explained the terms of the meeting, terms which they’d all _agreed_ to by appearing and signing their names on the Scroll, then left the meeting in the hands of the Consul to begin.

Which meant, apparently, a long and _tedious_ but necessary rehash of the current existing Accords, the changes outlined by the previous weeks of negotiations, and an outline of Covenant Law.

Tedious for Magnus and others like him who were more than aware of these things.

Necessary as by his count at least _half_ of the people and various beings who were now expected to sign the new Shadow World treaty had never been at an Accords negotiation, learned about the Nephilim’s Covenant Law, or ever pretended to give a fuck about either.

Understandable, given that the Unseelie Princes at least were rumored to be _older than the planet_, and that the Djinn ruler Shahnaz might literally be older than Moses.

Magnus liked to lie and play and obscure his true age but he’d never actually met someone who _was_ as old as he pretended to be at times.

Well, other than demons of course.

“Despite appearances,” Ragnor said drily, tone pitched low to avoid notice from the others. Especially the warlock in question as Stiles was only a couple seats down on the other side of Nefertari and Tessa Gray. “I _don’t_ actually know who Stiles’s father is. Only _what_ he is. And even that I wasn’t certain was an Unseelie rather than a Greater Demon.”

“Hard to miss the angelic ancestry.” Magnus noted side-eyeing the massive spread of wings that the Unseelie hybrid sported. Unseelie _were_ Fallen, which he supposed did technically make Stiles a warlock and he definitely had the magic for it. Though he couldn’t help but wonder _who_ the mortal was that drew the eye of an Unseelie prince given the, frankly, indulgent way the Princes treated Stiles when they were hardly anything in Magnus’s experience but cold to anyone _not_ Unseelie.

Don’t get him wrong, they weren’t arrogant or condescending about it like the Seelie unless they were dealing _with_ the Seelie which was never not entertaining.

They were just…removed from the cares of the others in the Shadow World and as a result rarely invested anything from time to emotion with those not of their race as a result.

“Yes,” Ragnor nodded. “It is at that. Though it looks as if the Queen is returning to her scheming. If the stars align correctly you might get that answer you’re after soon enough.”

One could only hope.

Even having Alexander to gaze upon – furtively, no need to cause additional drama with the Clave over something so new – wouldn’t be enough to salvage his day if the drudgery of solidifying previous Accords were any sign.

A bit of Fae drama added to the mix – which as a major bonus had nothing to do with anyone he was personally invested or involved in – would be an excellent addition to keep things lively.

Little did he know, but Magnus could come to deeply regret wishing for Fae drama.

As no sooner than it appeared in the form of the Queen’s newest round of schemes than it threatened to upend his entire world.

…

The current state of the agreed-upon changes to the Accords stood as follows:

Mundanes found to commit crimes against Shadowhunters or Downworlders were to be held accountable to the same extent of the law as if the crime were committed by a member of the Shadow world, up to and including imprisonment or execution.

If imprisonment is the given punishment, the mundane will be imprisoned and then their memories altered to scrub all knowledge of the Shadow World at the end of their sentence before being returned to mundane society.

Spoils were made illegal as a blanket law, which formerly were still allowed if executed as part of an official sentence at a trial performed by the Clave. Meaning that spoils could no longer be awarded under the guise of a legal punishment. Existing spoils held by the Nephilim were to be destroyed or returned to the ruling body of the deceased such as the Warlock’s Council.

Overturned the requirement that a Downworlder be a member of an official “ruling body” such as a werewolf pack or vampire clan, allowing for a downworlder to be cast out of a clan or leave one peacefully if desired, and their former ruling body would no longer be held accountable for their behavior.

Per the request of the Nephilim and the assent of the Unseelie, fae changelings were made illegal in all realms unless the Fae have the full and informed consent of the parents in question. Kidnapping in any fashion performed by the Seelie – whether in the mortal or Seelie realm – was now punishable by law.

Downworlders were granted the right to use lethal force against nephilim in defense of themselves or others and must be _first_ given a hearing before a tribunal consisting of at least two downworlders and a Nephilim prior to the Clave pressing charges for the death of their Nephilim.

Blanket pardons were issued for any downworlder who killed a Circle member prior to the above clause being added to the Accords, including the warlocks known as Stiles and Magnus Bane.

Nephilim found, known, or admitted to be members of the Nephilim group “The Circle” were to be removed from any and all leadership positions within the Clave whether public such as the Head of an Institute or private such as positions on the Clave Council or advisory positions to any of the same. Downworlders and Nephilim found to have killed active Circle members could not be charged with a crime, including murder, for said killing, to which end a list of “protected” Circle members known to have broken ties with Valentine Morganstern was provided as these former members could not be killed with impunity under the new Accords.

Valentine Morganstern was listed officially in the treaty as a terrorist and threat against the Shadow World with a kill on sight order placed on his head.

Use of _any_ of the Mortal Instruments, including the Soul Sword, on Downworlders or part-Downworlders such as Downworlder-Shadowhunter hybrids was ruled illegal and prohibited, as was imprisonment of Downworlders in the City of Bones – as both were painful death sentences in most cases.

Downworlders could not be held or detained on suspicion of committing a crime for more than twenty-four hours without official charges being brought before the Shadow World tribunal whether they are charged by the Nephilim or the Downworlders.

Shadowhunters and other Nephilim could be arrested and detained on charges for offenses against Downworlders and brought to trial by a Shadow World tribunal rather than only the Clave having the right to hold Nephilim to account for crimes no matter who they were committed against.

Legal marriages between members of the Shadow World – no matter what method or ceremony is used – are officially recognized by all the ruling bodies of the Shadow World, including the Clave.

…

Stiles wished he could be surprised that some of the previously agreed upon changes weren’t already part of the law but he wasn’t. With the Clave’s superiority complex and other issues, that it took a severe deficit in their power for them to “deign” to agree to some of the changes – such as those barring use of _all_ the Mortal Instruments gifted to the Nephilim by Raziel as implements of torture or execution – no matter how barbaric they were. That they _weren’t_ in a position of power for the first true time since their creation was self-evident in what had already been discussed and approved.

Even so, his stomach churned at the idea that Shadowhunters were _still fucking allowed_ to take spoils, like say a Warlock’s Marks, and his temper rattled inside its cage at the sour faces of the Clave representatives as the Consul read out that alteration, all except the Silent Brothers and Alec looking nothing short of disdainful over that change and several others.

“We still need to clarify the measures used to identify qualified members of a tribunal.” Talia spoke first after the end of the reading, referring to a _long_ list of notes she’d obviously taken at previous meetings. “The creation and function of an oversight authority, the…”

She was rudely interrupted by the Seelie Queen, who looked like she was plotting something – which, fair, Stiles was entirely certain she was _always_ plotting something – and it wasn’t going to be the sort of thing that _anyone else_ appreciated.

“What of the Mortal Cup?” Etaín demanded, voice bell-like and chiming. “Putting in restrictions on the Mortal Instruments is all well and good, but with the Cup still missing no restrictions placed on it via the Accords can be carried out.”

Uneasy glances were exchanged by the various people circling the table, except for a few – the Princes – who honestly didn’t care one way or another.

At the end of the day – or the century, considering how bad they all were at keeping track of time on a basis similar to mortals – it didn’t affect them. The Mortal Instruments were of no concern of theirs. Anything Raziel made, they could destroy after all.

They had _always_ been more powerful than their short-sighed former compatriot and in their opinion – stated to Stiles more than once – it was only Ithuriel’s intervention in granting his own blood to be used in creating the Cup as well as Raziel’s that had granted the Nephilim the short supply of compassion and empathy they retained as a people.

Raziel was very _just _and _righteous_ to hear the Princes speak of him, but not much of one for ambiguity or emotions.

Raziel existed to fight demons. That was it. His entire purpose and the only joy he’d ever found in his existence. To the Princes, it wasn’t a surprise that his little _experiment_ with the Nephilim was problematic at best. Adding in angelic grace and blood to a people that are as a whole very ambiguous and emotional and illogical wasn’t the best idea Raziel ever had. It made a species that was constantly at war within themselves as they struggled to balance that which was angelic from Raziel and Ithuriel with that which was wholly human and mortal.

That the Mortal Cup didn’t have an even larger rate of failure was a never-ending surprise to the Princes and Ailill who dealt with this dimension the most as the Unseelie Ambassador in particular.

The Consul nodded at Alec when the Shadowhunter glanced at his ultimate authority short of the angel himself coming down to deal with the fallout of the children he’d made.

“The last known location of the Mortal Cup has been lost and no new information regarding it has been unearthed. We _have_ confirmed that it was originally stolen from Valentine Morganstern by his estranged wife Jocelyn Fairchild. However,” his voice and gaze were steady as he reported. Not allowing a single drop of the unease he felt sitting before so much power – in one way or another – gathered together and _listening to him_. “We believe that she was captured by Morganstern at the same time as the location of the Cup was lost.”

“How do we know that Valentine doesn’t have the Cup, then?” Raphael Santiago, the boyfriend of Stiles’s best friend Derek – which Derek’s mother it seemed was getting a _good_ nose-full of understanding from the narrow-eyed glance she shot the Latino vampire, asked.

“My dear,” Magnus spoke up before anyone else could answer _or_ the Accords Council could be thrown into a panic. “If Valentine Morganstern had the Mortal Cup it would be like Beyoncé riding a T-Rex through the middle of Central Park: people _would_ notice.”

“Then the real question becomes,” Luke Garroway, a surprise addition to many but not to Stiles as he’d helped deal with the fallout of the leadership of one of the largest werewolf packs in the United States being fought over, and if what he was seeing in the Council was any sign there was a good mix of people from all over the globe not just who led the largest group or was ostensibly the most powerful alone. “If the Cup is recovered and returned to the Clave, how do we prevent this from happening again?” He arched his brows at the Clave reps. “The last thing we need – Clave or Downworlder – is for another Nephilim to steal it and try and build themselves an army of rogue Shadowhunters.”

“A compromise seems to be in order.” Ailill spoke up from three seats to Stiles’s left, the Fae Ambassador’s voice as smooth as tempered chocolate when it wasn’t speaking in its native tongue that could deafen a mortal or kill them entirely if he wasn’t careful. Viewing them all in a row: Ailill, Aetheryn, Draethan, and Stiles, one could almost think Aetheryn was a changeling with his pure white hair and white-and-silver wings while the rest of them had dark brown or black locks. However, as Aetheryn’s face was identical to that of his twin Draethan’s only with different coloring, their relation couldn’t be denied. “And in true spirit of such things, one that will likely fully please none of you. If a Downworlder is responsible for returning the Mortal Cup to the Clave, the Warlocks Council will then be allowed to set the protections surrounding it to prevent another theft _and_ prevent anyone who would not or could not survive Ascension – for mundanes – or Renewal of the Covenant – for Nephilim – from approaching the Cup. If the Mortal Cup is returned by a Nephilim, the Clave can set whatever security and protections it saw fit to use upon the Cup without interference from the Downworlders.”

“What if it’s returned by a hybrid?” Helen Blackthorn asked drily. The older sister of Alec’s first kiss Mark, the older two – Helen and Mark – of the Blackthorn children were the only recognized Shadowhunter-Seelie hybrids alive, though being the elder only Helen was present. “I realize there’s not many of us, but,” she cast a meaningful look at Tessa Gray and Stiles himself, “we do exist.”

“That’s another issue altogether.” Ragnor snorted softly, ignoring the sneer it gained him from the Inquisitor and the Queen. “Before dear Tessa, no Shadowhunter hybrid with downworlder blood has ever been acknowledged. As the Alliance Scroll clearly deemed them of importance great enough to have a voice in shaping the Accords, their legal status _should_ be among the issues accounted for in the new Accords.”

And on and on it went.

As Stiles expected, Ailill’s compromise regarding the Cup was accepted though true to his conjecture no one was really happy about it. If he had to guess, the vampires and Seelie in particular were loath to have it returned to the Clave. But some, who weren’t focusing on the fight over hybrids, noted a key phrase used in Ailill’s compromise: _if_.

_If_ the Mortal Cup was given over or returned.

Not _when_.

The wording didn’t _demand_ the Cup’s return to the Clave though later he was sure the Clave Council at least would try to say that it did.

It made contingencies for _if_, not _when_, and not _must._

Ailill, true to the hands-off stance the Unseelie had mostly taken regarding this world and dimension, had merely presented a way to handle a possibility, leaving it up to whoever ended up with possession of the Cup to decide whether to return it or not.

Of course, if they chose _not_ and it became public knowledge, then that was a whole different issue they’d have to prepare for with the Clave coming after them with a vengeance, but that was still a choice that they would be allowed under the law to make.

In turn it was eventually decided that hybrids of two or more species – excluding Nephilim – could enjoy a sort of dual-citizenship under the law unless the traits of one were significantly dominant.

Nephilim hybrids, on the other hand, were to be made to choose whether they were held to the standards – and given the privileges – of their Nephilim or Downworlder heritage once they came of age in Nephilim society at sixteen years of age.

It clearly bothered the djinn and Unseelie in particular to hear in black and white at what age a Nephilim is considered mature enough to make such life altering choices but considering how long Shadowhunter lives often were not, it made sense to have a young age of maturity.

Immortals had no frame of reference for that sort of mayfly life unless they were deeply entangled in mortal society or like the vampires had once _been_ mortal themselves.

“There should be a grace period for existing hybrids.” Stiles spoke up for the first time regarding the actual treaty. “Asking them to wake up tomorrow morning and make a decision that will completely alter their lives without notice could be considered cruel.”

“Agreed.” Helen nodded firmly, mouth set. “Mark would never forgive me if I sprang this on him. How does,” she frowned thinking carefully. “Ninety days sound? That should give anyone effected plenty of time to consider the choice and all the ramifications of it.”

“Fine with me.” Stiles shrugged then looked at Tessa on his right. “You?”

Tessa nodded, though for her the question was an easy one to answer. With her Shadowhunter husband dead and the end of their line approaching with only Imogen remaining, there wasn’t anything for her in their world. Even dear Jem as a Silent Brother wasn’t reason enough to remain among them.

Especially as it had been made clear to her over the years that her place was _not_ with the Nephilim.

They’d never accept a warlock like her within their ranks, especially as her demonic blood was strong enough to make her incompatible with using angelic runes.

“And yet.” Etaín spoke again and half the room braced themselves. “We remain without a _guarantee_ regarding the Nephilim’s adherence to the treaty. We have heard these words before. That they will follow the Accords and treat with us fairly and still…” She trailed off, arching a knowing brow.

Stiles felt himself and the Princes almost come up on point, all of their senses trilling out a warning.

None of them knew what angle she was working – had been working toward the whole time if Stiles was any judge – but they knew they couldn’t allow her to have whatever it was she was after.

“What _more_ do you want from us, your Highness?” For once it wasn’t the Consul or the Inquisitor growing frustrated with the Seelie Queen, but the envoy from the Iron Sisters in her drab grey robes and black hair that was liberally streaked with silver. While the Inquisitor was the picture of matronly grace to suit her – for a Nephilim – advanced age, the Iron Sister whose life was given in service to the Clave in the Adamant Citadel where they studied the ways of forging and designing weapons for the Nephilim cause had an ageless loveliness that made it so she could as easily be sixty as she could thirty. “The Clave has already agreed to considerable concessions to maintain the peace of the Shadow World.”

“Words are wind,” Etaín dismissed the Iron Sister with a flick of her wrist. “Actions are iron. What is it you Nephilim like to say? _The honor is in the deed_? The Seelie require more than words to affirm the new Accords.”

“What did you have in mind?” Magnus asked idly, leaning indolently on the arm of his chair and fastening his unglamored cat’s gaze on her, enjoying her flinch that the reminder of his power that she was likely successful in concealing from all but the most observant of their fellows. He wasn’t surprised at her reaction to his eyes. Unlike many of the others present, Etaín was old enough to remember who gave them to him. And to fear. “Flowers, chocolates, promises they don’t intend to keep?”

Magnus considered his work done when several people around the table snorted a laugh while others simply looked baffled – including the Clave members _and_ Etaín which was one of the best BOGOs ever – which was unfairly adorable on Alexander.

Most looks in fact were unfairly adorable on Alexander so that at least was normal.

That all three of the druids, all of the wolf shifters, and all of the werewolves were among those who laughed – plus Stiles because why not, it made _total_ sense that an Unseelie hybrid knew Disney – was honestly a wider selection than he’d thought would understand that reference.

Especially the Morgraine and Emrys who other than those who’d handled the Alliance Scroll like Alexander and the pair in question no one knew their names and identities.

Glamors may not work at the moment but when you’re an embodiment of ancient natural magic encompassing an entire planet hooded cloaks were always in style.

“Something precious.” Etaín continued, ignoring Magnus Bane as she was often content to do until she had no other option, much like how she dealt with the Unseelie. “Something that will _hurt_ them if they go back on their word and void the Accords.”

“We _will not_ surrender one of the Mortal Instruments to _Downworlders_.” The Consul told her resolutely. “It’s not even an option to be spoken of.”

“Ahh, younglings.” Ailill sighed, sharing a look with his brothers. “They speak of peace in one breath and then spit on those who they would ally with the next. Such intemperance.”

“And yet,” Talia arched a mocking brow at the Clave envoys. “Rather apt an illustration for our reserve.” She traded a look with Stiles, one so quick that if the others weren’t looking for it, like her oldest son Darius del Rey, one of the three druid representatives, they would have overlooked or flat-out missed it. “I agree. The Clave should be held to account for the Accords and these measures. As such, the tribunal institution that has _already_ been broached would be ideal.”

“No, no, nothing so prosaic.” Etaín dismissed airly. “Something firm. Something that as been used as a guarantor of treaties for ages. A true union of peoples.”

“You mean marriage.” Ragnor said flatly. “You expect the Clave to marry one of their precious Nephilim to a Downworlder.”

“It _is_ an ancient measure to unify lands and peoples.” Meliorn, the Queen’s Knight, affirmed. “While unprecedented in this manner, Shadowhunters _have_ wed with other peoples in the past. Our own Helen,” he nodded at the Seelie hybrid. “Is evidence enough of such.”

In an instant, Stiles thought he saw what the Queen was after: her loyal knight, who’d been carrying on an affair with Isabelle Lightwood, wedded to the child of a prestigious Nephilim family and embedded in their culture. Perhaps, if the agreement is worded right, even married to an Institute Head. Oh no. He wasn’t _about_ to allow that.

Not if he could help it.

“Why not combine the two ideas?” Stiles spoke up, working his way around to spiking the Queen’s plot without actually seeming like that was what he was doing. In this his age was a definite benefit. The Queen would never believe that an Unseelie of his youth would manage to outthink her. “A Triumvirate. A triadic union of Downworlder,” he nodded to the Queen which seemed to please her. “And Shadowhunter, with a third party included for balance. Together charged to oversee requests for appeals, trials, or whatever a tribunal would carry out on a local level but at an international one.”

Silence.

Then:

“All three parties would have to be highly born or placed.” Darius said, taking care with his words as his eyes flickered from his mother to Stiles and then his own people. “Heads or Heirs or Seconds of families, clans, packs, etc.”

“An arranged marriage?” Alec spoke up, scowling. “A _triadic_ arranged political marriage?” He shook his head. “How is that supposed to bring stability to the Shadow World when you’re speaking of sentencing three people to a life – or longer depending – spent with two others they might not even know?”

“Your people seem fond enough of arranged political marriages.” Stiles pointed out drily. “Wasn’t one of those the reason Kallisto Darklight fled the Clave when she was matched to a Lightwood rather than her _parabatai_ Victor Morganstern? It may not be _done_ that much anymore in the modern era but I have a hard time believing it has died out altogether.”

Considering that his mother had told him that that was exactly what happened plus a surprise Stiles on the way, he knew it for a fact.

It was whether they’d admit it that he was interested in.

The uproar that followed _that_ tidbit was quite entertaining – at least to him.

Though the conclusion was already foregone once it had been suggested. Stiles had known that from the look on the faces of the Consul and Inquisitor. They had something nasty up their sleeves and the Queen wasn’t completely stymied either.

In the end, the Accords had a final addition once all the bickering, scheming, and – at times – screaming was over and done with:

_While a tribunal can be made up of any two downworlders and one shadowhunter with significant authority for their ruling to be recognized (usually Heads, seconds, Alphas, etc.) the ultimate authority the Shadow World can appeal to for mediation or adjudication of a crime, sentence, or dispute is the Triumvirate. Bound together in union, the Triumvirate is to be a neutral mediating body given the authority to intercede in rulings, judgements, or disputes at their discretion to ensure that all the peoples of the Shadow World are given fair rights and treatment under Covenant Law. Per the signing of the Accords, the Triumvirate must always consist of: A Shadowhunter, a Shadowhunter hybrid, and a Downworlder. The Triumvirate serves for life and should one member die, a new Triumvirate must be formed either with the addition of a new member to the surviving Triumvirate members or by forming a new Triumvirate altogether._

And in the true spirit of compromise as had already been adhered to earlier: none of them were happy about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For more information about my stories (fanfic and original) find me on Facebook at: https://www.facebook.com/sif.shadowheart
> 
> Or follow me on Twitter: https://twitter.com/AbramsSif


	11. Chapter 11

** Hunter’s Bane **

**Chapter Eleven: What Makes a Warlock?**

“Oh for Epona’s sake!” The Morgraine finally burst out in exasperation as they reached hour – _four, five_? – of debate over _who_ of the Nephilim and the Downworlders could be expected to give themselves in union for the sake of upholding the Accords. The sticking point that made the discussion more than just who they could fool/sucker/bully into taking the hit was that whoever chosen would serve as part of the, dress it up however one wanted, oversight committee that would be charged with interfering with Shadow World affairs wherever requested or they saw the need. 

It was more authority granted to a single body of the Shadow World since Raziel had created the Nephilim and they proceeded to bulldoze over all the rights, traditions, and lives of the preexisting peoples who predated them and would outlive them in time. She found it more than a little revolting that the Clave and several of the Downworld leaders had no lack of options they were willing to throw under the bus into an arranged marriage to their on-again off-again enemies but weren’t able to agree to who they would be just as willing to entrust that kind of power to. In her opinion, if it weren’t for the caveat Talia – sensible creature Talia, she’d always thought so, that she was the mother of her favored protégé and Guardian was beside the point – had insisted on that the Triumvirate be made of “eligible persons of child-bearing age” that old crone Herondale would’ve tried for it herself. 

“This is ridiculous.” She waved off her husband and counterpart when the Emrys leaned forward to soften her stance to the others. “No, it is. None of you,” she waved at the most intransient members of the Accords Council, namely the two persons of highest authority in the Clave, the Seelie Queen, Nefertari of the Warlocks, and Marcel St. Cloud of the Vampires. “Are ever going to come to a consensus for who should be chosen from the Nephilim and Downworld. I propose a solution: as the Shadowhunter Hybrids are the only ones with such a limited pool of candidates as to be numbered on a single _hand_, most of whom are already present, _we_ should allow whoever is chosen from their number for the Triumvirate the selection of whom _they_ think they can tolerate as partners from a selection of eligible candidates.”

Helen and Tessa exchanged a drawn-out look, Helen’s more commiserating and Tessa’s resigned.

They both had a decent idea of how this was going to end.

The Unseelie, Clave, and Warlocks hadn’t been all that discreet about blocking the Seelie Queen at every avenue after all, whether they were doing so openly or through the web of alliances that existed under the surface of the Accords and connected much of the Downworld together.

Interestingly enough, those alliances were centered around the neutral/natural powers of the druids and the shifters. The shifters allied with the druids and werewolves alike and seemed to have a connection of some kind to at least Stiles outside of their normal allies. The druids were connected in turn to the shifters, warlocks, and Seelie but again there was a connection between the youngest druid – or at least the only one not wearing a cloak to hide his late-twenties youth – and Stiles. While it didn’t seem there was an official understanding between the djinn and the Seelie or Unseelie, they _did_ tend to think along similar lines as one or both groups of the Fae likely due to all of them being some form of ancient.

And so on.

As a result, Helen already _knew_ that whatever was going to be suggested would likely discount her – as the Clave considered her uncontrollable and everyone else was wary of her connection to the Seelie – and place the onus of agreement onto Tessa’s shoulders as the “compassionate, kind” hybrid that most of them probably thought they could manipulate one way or another.

Or knew her history well enough to know where to apply pressure if force was preferred over games.

Sure enough, it was the Consul who started it off, Dieudonne having had more than one run in with either Helen herself or her father and brother as her father of the infamous Seelie ex-wife and two bastard Seelie hybrid shadowhunter children, and wanted approximately _none_ of them in a higher position of power than the Blackthorn family “enjoyed” as the Head family of the Los Angeles Institute, suggesting that a position of such influence and responsibility should be given to someone with the wisdom to handle the pressure and gravitas that came with it.

The Inquisitor backed him up, because of course she did, and the Envoy from the Iron Sisters agreed.

Though it was the warlock Ragnor that put a fine point on it: “Shall we say the oldest and most matured Shadowhunter Hybrid alive, then?” He offered in that bland indolence he used when he wasn’t being bitingly sardonic.

So it was agreed, the addendum placed into the Accords, including that the “oldest Shadowhunter Hybrid alive of eligible age shall have the choice of their counterparts both of the Triumvirate and to join them in the wedded union of alliance from consenting candidates nominated by the duly-appointed representatives of the Clave, Unseelie, Seelie, Warlocks, Druids, Djinn, Vampires, Shifters, Werewolves, et al.”

Finally all at last agreed, the last and final draft of the new Accords treaty was read out and all the representatives signed it, some with more reluctance or smugness than others. Brother Zachariah sealed it with the Alliance Seal given over to his care by Alec Lightwood, and then with the Tenth Accords sealed and ratified, the Accords Council was able to turn their attention to the final work of the day: the selection of the sacrificial lambs and/or martyrs expected to agree to an arranged marriage to secure the peace of the Shadow World.

One was already ratified right along with the Accords.

Or, so they thought.

Instead, they’d really only ratified the _description_ or qualifications the Hybrid member of the Triumvirate must have and not the _name_ of the personage in particular.

An oversight that the Clave and anyone looking to sway who they thought a comparatively easy mark – such as the Seelie – due to a legendary soft-heart and secluded upbringing were no doubt going to be kicking themselves for decades or even centuries over, when as Queen Etaín turned to Tessa Gray with a soft – and a bit smarmy – smile to ask her preferences for a husband, she was reprehensibly interrupted by a low chuckle.

“Tessa, dear, what would you-”

_Snicker_. _Chuckle_. _Scoff_.

Coming from more than one person around the table, though in fact limited to precisely a handful of persons and only a fraction of those present, the Queen was visibly insulted at the interruption.

“Oh, you _really_ should watch your wording when around those who cannot lie, your Highness.” Ragnor filled her in, tilting his head with an infuriating smile towards the laughing Stiles and the sharply grinning Unseelie. “My dear Tessa, infamous though she is among the Clave, is _not_ in fact the eldest Shadowhunter hybrid alive nor of eligible and child-bearing age.”

Eyes popped wide among many of the Council while others – like the djinn who at this point were more there for the entertainment, much like the entire farce since they didn’t interact much, or at all, with mortals and even less with the Clave much like the Unseelie – hunkered down to enjoy the show as the Queen looked like a startled deer in headlights and the Clave spluttered, except for the pair of Silent Brothers who tilted their heads to the side in curiosity as they actually didn’t know that either for all the knowledge that their order possesses and Alec who really wasn’t processing much of anything outside of trying to find all the angles of what the Consul and Inquisitor were planning before it bit him in the ass or ruined the peace that the Shadow World so desperately needed with Valentine returning.

“Then who _is_?” Inquisitor Herondale demanded, eyes flashing. “And why doesn’t the Clave know of them? That is _strictly_ against the Accords, Warlock Fell!”

And well, she wasn’t wrong. One measure of the Accords that had been in place since the beginning version of them was that children of Nephilim – even deruned Nephilim and outcasts – were to be made known to the Clave and offered the chance to join their ranks. There was only _one_ problem with that.

Trading a glance with Ragnor, Stiles nodded, rising with his wings stretching and fluttering a bit before settling back down as he reached into his trouser pocket and withdrew his _stele_.

It was a unique design – a gift from his father – in the shape of a feather with the feather-tip being the drawing end and the pin of the feather elongated and curved into a hook that wrapped around his pinky finger.

He propped his right leg up on the chaise, Draethan reaching over and popping open the inner seam on his pants with a soft tug made powerful with Unseelie strength as sheer _dread_ settled into more than one belly.

They’d gotten him _wrong_ all this time, ever since he’d been classified and then dismissed as a warlock in fact, taking his ability to wield powerful magic as a sign of his race when the whole time he’d been something _else_ entirely.

A single swipe of Stiles’s stele disrupted a rune that gleamed on his inner thigh and runes – black, silver, gold, and even red – washed into view as the effect of his _Hide_ rune wore away.

“I-” Alec blinked, stuttering a moment at the sight of a Nephilim bearing runes with _wings_ and glowing golden eyes like a warlock. Then he cleared his throat and tried again: “I thought magic and runes were cut off?”

“_New_ runes were cut off.” Ragnor corrected with a vicious grin, reveling in the reveal of his protégé in his full glory, a sight few had ever seen and most of them in this very room. “Not ones that were already active and working on the body, such as Stiles’s _Hide_ rune.”

“You _knew_.” Magnus’s voice was wondering and delighted despite the wording. “You utter bastard. You knew all this time that it wasn’t going to be Tessa at all.”

Ragnor snorted. “I helped his mother,” Ragnor nodded towards Stiles as the hybrid grinned shamelessly and twirled his stele, setting it down on the table before him as he settled back onto the chaise. “Make her escape from her oppressive family when she became pregnant from a man most _definitely_ not her betrothed. Of course I _knew_. I just wasn’t aware if Stiles ever wished to be known for who he is.”

“That doesn’t excuse the rampant breaking of the Accords!” Herondale protested, face a livid puce with outrage. “_His_,” she jabbed a finger at the bewinged Nephilim, who unlike Tessa but like the Blackthorn siblings couldn’t be mistaken for anyone else with as many runes he bore, several of which she’d never seen before outside of the Book of the Gray or _at all_. “Existence should have been made known to us per the Accords! _Warlock Fell _you are in violation of-”

Stiles cut her off.

“Nothing.” He smiled tauntingly as he leaned forward around the Princes. “As we’ve established that I’m _older_ than Tessa and her own birth predates the Accords, it follows that while Ragnor might have broken the _spirit_ of the Accords when they were_ finally_ ratified in 1872, as I was already seventy-two years old by that point, he was under no obligation to the _letter_ of the Law to reveal my existence.”

The Iron Sisters envoy frowned, lips moving silently as she did a bit of math and turned over some family and/or Clave history.

Not that he was surprised.

With the name he’d seen on the Scroll and that black opal ring on her hand, he was well aware that if any of the Clave reps were going to twig his maternal identity before he admitted to it, it was going to be her.

She was – if he had his family tree right – his much-removed cousin after all.

“That pendant,” the Iron Sister pointed to the opal on its adamas setting and chain that passed for silver or platinum to the undiscerning eye that rested against Stiles's sternum. “It’s the Darklight pendant, isn’t it?”

“The one that disappeared along with Kallisto Darklight in…” Alec spoke then realization washed over his face. “Oh.”

_Oh_, indeed.

“Salil Darklight.” Stiles managed to make his seated bow look nothing so much as irreverently sardonic. “At _your_ service, Alec. Though I’ve preferred Stiles for going on sixty years now.” His grin was sharp. “My great-descended nephew had issues over the _“L”_s in Salil when he was learning to talk.”

Which was nothing but the absolute truth. Noah’s toddler lisping had been _adorable_ for a man who grew into quite the badass. That Noah was going to be his final great-nephew was only one of the reasons why he still went by the nickname even though Noah was now settled into retirement and the autumn years of his mortal life.

“I thought you were a warlock.” Luke grumbled, more than a bit disturbed at the idea of having a, a _what_, an Unseelie-Shadowhunter hybrid running around? Because _that_ wasn’t a recipe for disaster.

Nefertari actually fielded that one, eyeing the young one with his glowing eyes speculatively.

Say what you want about him, any of the warlocks present understood his precautions and why he’d chosen to hide his truth under layers of deception and use the assumptions of others against them.

They’d _quite literally_ only just managed to put a blanket ban on spoils into place.

And in all her centuries she’d seen few Warlock Marks quite so magnificent as his wings with their rich feathers and metallic glistening.

“What you call warlocks are merely what you get when you breed a powerful enough immortal with a mortal and a blending occurs instead of the immortal traits entirely subsuming the mortal.” She took lush pleasure in educating the ignorant on some basic information regarding her race that was lost to time when a predominate parentage emerged around the turn of eras from BCE to CE and the rise of monotheism. “Rightfully, you think of warlocks as children of demons and for good reason: most angels would no sooner directly breed with a race they see as little more than mouthy monkeys than _you_ would try to breed with…” she hummed under her breath thinking. “A ring-tailed lemur,” she decided with a wicked grin. “They’re far too removed from drives like physical desire outside of their own race. _Demons_ on the other hand…well. We all know how that goes, don’t we?” She mocked the former Shadowhunter-turned-werewolf with a little flutter of her fingers over her scales.

“So you’re saying…” Darius tilted his head thoughtfully. For all that his mother’s family the Hales had a long relationship with Stiles-Salil, he’d never actually heard it put that way.

“That if an Unseelie were to procreate with another race – _not_ among the Fae – that a warlock is what you’d get? Yes.” Draethan, fourth Prince of the Unseelie, answered shortly and blatantly unhappy about it and the subject at hand. “He _is_ one of us by virtue of his blood and his heritage, but my brother is not Unseelie as he still retains mortal traits.”

Which also answered the question of how Stiles was involved with the Unseelie Princes and was simultaneously both terrifying and comforting. That Stiles _did_ retain mortal traits could only be a good thing as one of the most off-putting things about the Unseelie was how blatantly inhuman they were. Even demons were better at blending in among mortals than the Unseelie.

But, and it was a big _but_, if Kallisto Darklight was Stiles’s mother and he was the _brother_ of the Unseelie Princes than that made his father…

“Oh _fuck me_,” Luke breathed out in utter horror. “Lucifer’s son helped save my life.”

And as a result, Luke _owed him a favor_.

Magnus coughed to break the tension though he couldn’t blame Luke for his terror. Owing a son of Lucifer a favor was no joke. If there was one thing all warlocks were trained into obeying above everything else, it was never to renege on a deal with a demon or a Fallen.

It was an interesting saying but nothing less than true that it was easier to cheat death than it was Lucifer.

Magnus didn’t imagine his sons, no matter the portion of humanity they contained, would be anymore merciful than the infamous Lightbringer.

“What about shadowhunters, or, or Seelie hybrids then?” Helen burst out, unable to contain her curiosity – especially since those with answers _were actually answering for once_ rather than the runaround she always got from the Seelie or her father, let alone the sticks-in-the-mud at the Clave.

“Nefertari said it,” Stiles answered, a bit bored even as he watched the Seelie Queen and the Clave reps like a hawk. They were each plotting something and he was willing to guarantee he wasn’t going to like it any more than the other plots and schemes they’d tried to wriggle through the Accords. “Mouthy monkeys. Rather than go about things the reproductive way, Raziel made the Cup to filter down the gifts granted to “worthy” humans who survived the process. Shadowhunters are far less than they could be as a result. As for the Seelie, they’re not exactly as powerful and ancient as they like to make out.” He smirked over at the transparently offended glares that got him from all three of the Seelie. “Oh, they are powerful. And ancient. But not _one_ of them actually dates from before the Fall. They’re what’s left of the original Seelie’s children, grandchildren, etc. So when one breeds with a non-Seelie, they’re not powerful enough to create a warlock. No, you need _pure_ angelic or demonic blood for that.”

“Like the Unseelie.” Helen groaned, rubbing one hand over her forehead.

“Like the Unseelie, which nicely answers the question of _what is Stiles_, don’t you think?” Magnus said chirpily, grinning as that question had been on his mind for _days_ and had only gotten worse at seeing his second Warlock Mark. “Though I have to ask: are you in fact allergic to shirts?” He tilted his head and eyed the expanse of bare skin littered with runes. “Not that the view isn’t appreciated, quite the opposite really, but inquiring minds _do_ want to know.”

Coughing laughter circled the table at Magnus’s obvious and successful ploy to change the subject.

“Well,” Stiles shrugged and his wings moved with the motion of the muscles in his shoulders and back. “These things aren’t as heavy as they look but they’re still a pain in the ass. Or rather shoulders, upper arms, chest, and back. It’s easier to glamor the appearance of a shirt than worry about one getting in the way. There’s also cultural issues because of where and when I was raised so I suppose you_ could_ say that I’m allergic to shirts as part of my personal crusade against the systematic oppression of my and my mother’s adopted people by the invading white settlers of the American West.”

“Can we _please_ get back to the point?” Talia’s not-so-patient soul finally broke. “Stiles is a hybrid and the unfortunate soul who will have to play peacekeeper between the Shadow World factions. Boo. Hiss. Complain _later_ about being short-sighted enough to make world-altering decisions while operating under erroneous assumptions and for now _deal with it_, we already signed the newest treaty for the Accords including putting him in this position.”

“I’m not going to force anyone to take this on with me.” Stiles said, very much with a _don’t fuck with me on this_ cast to his face and voice. He looked over at one of the ward stones, a spark of power flowing from him to it. “There. You should be able to use your phones or send fire messages now. I move we recess from official discussion for a time while volunteers are found and a list of them is submitted for my approval.”

“Why not take the time to meet them before making a decision?” Darius asked with a worried frown for his former mentor. “It’s not like we can slap together a wedding in an hour or two that’ll please both the Nephilim and whatever people the Downworlder is from.”

Stiles looked away from that oh-so-sweetly-concerned hazel gaze. He couldn’t handle the compassion right then. He just _couldn’t_. Not when he had to secure the peace between the factions of the Shadow World or risk it imploding into war and taking the lives of those he loves and cares for with it.

He’d lived through and fought enough wars that he’d never risk it.

“The peace isn’t official – and neither are the Accords – until the union is made.” Stiles explained his rush. “The Council will not be broken until the Accords are secured. Besides,” his tone dipped into the deeply cynical. “Does it really _matter_ in the end? It’s not like this is a love match, Darius. It’s a political expediency. Nothing more and nothing less. I hardly think whichever poor lambs are pressured into offering to marry a, what was it?” He turned and stared down Etaín. “A _cold, unfeeling, merciless_ Unseelie will be comforted by meeting me first.” He jerked a shoulder in a motion too rough to really be a shrug. “It is what it is – and to be honest I’d rather just get on with it.”

…

As expected by anyone with half a functioning braincell, the Accords Council was quick to recess even if only to break into groups and talk among each other over what to do with the corner they’d been backed into by a combination of Etaín’s plotting and pure Unseelie bloody-mindedness over _not_ letting her get her way.

Most of which actually came about from sources unexpected to go along with the Unseelie and their wishes as removed from this world as they were _but_ had a significant link or debt to pay to Stiles.

It was an intricate web of connections that ruled the Downworld, most of which the Clave or even the average Downworlder never knew existed. Debts and favors and connections to warlocks. Seelie who never forgot a slight, the seemingly ageless Morgraine and Emrys, the djinn and Unseelie who were older still and yet expected to outlive them all. Werewolves to shifters to druids, it was a system that had functioned long before the Nephilim were created a thousand years ago by Raziel and Ithuriel and would continue on when or if they died out, just another cog in the great war machine that was the angels versus demons.

And while calls were placed and plans were hissed in undertones and plots were hatched anew in Etaín’s crafty mind, the Unseelie sat apart – as removed in this as they were everything else – and carried on a discussion that only didn’t pierce the minds of those around them at the sound of their shared language because it was shared between their _own_ minds and not spoken aloud.

Stiles was keeping a firm eye on the two main representatives of the Clave. Alec hadn’t the sort of clout to make this kind of decision and as both the Silent Brothers and Iron Sisters were monastic orders, they _really_ didn’t have a horse in this race. The Inquisitor was on the phone with the Clave Council in New York and Alicante, but it was the Consul that Stiles wasn’t liking the look of.

Specifically the ones he was shooting at Alec Lightwood.

He liked it even less when the Inquisitor passed her phone over to the much younger shadowhunter, Alec taking it with a visible dread that in short order had him leaning against the wall with his head lowered and his shoulders hunched up around his ears.

_The djinn are merely entertained._ Aetheryn spoke in their shared mind-space, his rich bass belying his icy white-blond hair and almost delicate looks. _Which is to be expected. The younger druid means to offer himself._

_I’m not surprised._ Stiles responded. _Darius is likely thinking that at least with him as a partner I can be assured of one party not trying to kill me in my sleep, though any chance for passion would dissipate_. He gave the impression of a mental grimace that had Draethan patting him on the shoulder. _He might as well be my brother or nephew_.

_The Seelie mean to offer the Queen’s Knight_. Ailill warned, every line of him tensing up at the conversation between ruler and vassal. _To refuse could be considered a great insult._

_Unless it’s to someone higher ranked._ Aetheryn _did_ grimace at that. He hated this world and wished with the fibers of every last one of his feathers that they could just bundle up Salil and take their little brother away to the Winter Court. Father, however, had been firm with them. Free will was one of their gifts granted in exchange – and apology – for their inadvertent blockade from the heavenly realms. They hadn’t _meant_ to leave in carrying out their mission but their duty to defeat Samael and his host took precedence over all other concerns at the time. Retaining their angelic powers and being granted both dominion over various realms and free will was the remediation granted them for suffering a punishment that they’d earned in letter but not spirit of heavenly law. _Of which your options are going to be few._

There was no need to wonder where the Clave got their homily of “the law is hard but it is the law” as it was the same one that the majority of the Host lived, fought, loved, and died by.

_I don’t understand why the bigoted Clave is pressuring one of their males to join with you._ Draethan added in his two cents. _I remember more than one of their kind being cast out or killed in ages past for such things. And never to my memory has a union between same sex couples been acknowledged by them._

As before Stiles’s birth Draethan had been the Unseelie who’d spent the most time keeping an eye on this powder keg of a realm, he would know.

_Easy guess?_ Stiles asked rhetorically, mouth set and grim. _They don’t want to risk further tainting their bloodlines with intermarriage producing offspring. As the treaty specifies someone of eligible child-bearing age, they can’t toss their widows at my head and are going with the next best route: pressuring the openly homosexual son of a disgraced parentage into a union with two “lesser” creatures._

_I’ll never understand the Clave_. Draethan thought after a moment. _Considering your parentage, that makes literally no sense_.

Was he surprised? No. That didn’t mean that he _understood_ the thought processes of the Nephilim. Raziel’s little experiments were often an illogical mess of warring drives between their angelic blood and mortal souls. Interesting at times. But honestly – just a _mess_.

_And yet…_ Stiles trailed off, glancing at a wrecked Alec Lightwood as he handed the phone shakily back to a smug looking Inquisitor. _Evidence prevails._ _Which means…_ He turned his head and watched with a sinking feeling deep in his stomach though he didn’t finish his thought.

The last thing he wanted was for his brothers to tear the Accords Council apart in a fit of protective rage.

Stiles had set them on this path and he still believed, bleak as it had the potential to be, that it was still better to have done so than risked whatever gains the Seelie Queen sought for herself.

There it was: the look of doomed affections transforming before his eyes into mutual resolve as Magnus Bane saw Alec’s face and realized what it _meant_.

He supposed there were worse way to spend eternity than as a perpetual third-wheel. Unwanted. Unneeded except to maintain the truce.

Worse come to worse, he could always give in to his brothers’ demands and leave with them for the Winter Court.

Because jealous of them or not. Upset and hating himself or not. He couldn’t bring himself to tear them apart when he had the power to keep them together.

…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For more information about my stories (fanfic and original) find me on Facebook at: https://www.facebook.com/sif.shadowheart
> 
> Or follow me on Twitter: https://twitter.com/AbramsSif


	12. Chapter 12

** Hunter’s Bane **

**Chapter Twelve: The Fate of Malcolm Fade**

When they reconvened, Alec looking like a man facing a noose than the prospect of wedded bliss, Stiles spoke with a bitter cant to his lips and tone.

“I’m curious, Consul, Inquisitor.” He asked, an aged coin of silvery adamas playing and flipping through his fingers in an absent show of skill Alec could already picture just as easily being one of the daggers from the security footage they had of him from the Uprising – which hadn’t shown his face of course, Alec’s curiosity over how that glamor worked almost running rampant since Hodge told him and the others about it. “What part of _consenting_ candidates was so hard to understand?” He shot a _pointed_ look at the milk-pale, stoic face and form of the Accords’ host. “Institute Head Lightwood doesn’t seem to be exactly enthusiastic at his nomination.”

With what had happened between the Clave authorities and Lightwood as clear as day to the gathered Downworld leaders, there was no need for them to make a show of their selection of Lightwood as Stiles’s shadowhunter spouse.

“_Acting_ Institute Head Lightwood has given his consent.” Herondale said smugly, no idea of just how _thoroughly_ the names of herself and the Consul had been trod into mud with the Downworld by their antics with trying to wriggle around the letter of the agreement before the ink could even dry. Not that they’d expected anything else from the Clave. “No provisions were made for how said consent was obtained.”

“Institute _Head_, Madam Inquisitor.” Ailill corrected voice soft and all the more dangerous for it. “An Unseelie Prince doesn’t marry beneath him. The only ranks acceptable to us for our brother’s hand in union, a decision that is _ours_ to make with our father’s absence, are Institute Head, Inquisitor, or Consul.” He arched a dark brow at the suddenly prune-faced Clave authorities. Given that they’d clearly coerced Lightwood’s consent and created a shit-storm for Stiles to deal with as a result that was likely to send his baby brother spiraling, he wasn’t inclined to play _nice_ with the Clave any longer. No matter his fondness for Raziel’s mate Ithuriel in the days before the Fall. “A union must be made: yes. However while no provisions regarding blackmail, extortion, or otherwise _foul_ means of obtaining consent weren’t made in the new Accords, likewise were none made regarding the stipulations the spouses-to-be and their people could make regarding the details of the union.” His grin was sharp and shared by every Downworlder present after seeing how ill they treated their own in the form of Alec Lightwood’s arm-twisted consent to marry Stiles. “And,” he added innocently. “As the elder Lightwoods are to be stripped of their position due to their statuses as former _enthusiastic_ Circle members, it seems that the position should be filled with that of their son and Heir…unless either of _you_ intend to step aside and give your position over to young Lightwood?” He suggested, smirking. “No? Too bad, then it seems it is to be the New York Institute Headship for my brother’s first spouse.” He – and his younger brothers – turned to eye the other Downworlders. “What of his second?”

“Meliorn, Knight of the Queen, from the Seelie.” Meliorn rose at the grand announcement from the Queen’s advisor who’d stayed shockingly silent through the Accords negotiations.

“No candidate from the Djinn.”

“No candidate from the Unseelie.”

“Darius del Rey from the Druids.” Darius nodded at his friend and mentor, Stiles returning it with a sigh.

Yeah, he’d seen all of that coming from a mile away. It was what the others might do that was of interest to him now. If only from an academic perspective. Unless Magnus Bane had suffered a traumatic brain injury or a personality reversal in the last ten minutes, he already knew who was going to step forward from the Warlocks.

“Liu Fei Long, Alpha of the Beijing Pack,” Luke announced as the lithe werewolf with black hair to the back of his knees stood. “For the werewolves.”

“Laura or Cora Hale, Kali Steele, or Jackson Argent-Hale for the Shifters.”

Stiles arched a brow at that. Both Talia and Deucalion had been busy. He’d expected Laura as a gesture more than anything. Cora was a surprise considering that she was barely of age. And Jackson…well. He was certainly handsome with the little gene-splicing potion Stiles had gifted his fathers to use with a surrogate to carry him, but the thought of having Peter – one of his favorites from the Hale pack because they shared a similar enjoyment in righteous bloodshed and lack of moral compass – as a father-in-law was mildly terrifying.

“Aurelius St. Cloud, for the Vampires.” Marcel sent a smug look at the others, _certain_ that his favored childe’s legendary stunning looks would have even an Unseelie-sired Warlock agreeing to bond him sight unseen.

All eyes turned towards the trio of warlocks when the announcement of their candidate or candidates weren’t immediately forthcoming after that of the Vampires, Ragnor and Magnus seeming to have a rapid-paced disagreement in a language none of the others could follow except for the three Unseelie Princes who hadn’t lost their omnilingual ability anymore than they had the rest of their angelic powers.

At last – after long moments of conversation that had deep furrows cutting themselves into the brows of Stiles’s brothers – Magnus stood.

“Magnus Bane, High Warlock of Brooklyn, for the Warlocks.”

Stiles let silence settle over the chapel for a moment, finding it suddenly quite darkly ironic that this whole _arrangement_ was being carried out in a place that in another life Alec and Magnus might have willingly wed within.

“Alec, Magnus,” Stiles stood and waved his hand towards a corner of the room, as far away from the others that they could get without leaving the wards. “If we are to be bound, we should speak a moment before my brother carries out our ritual.”

More than one of the Accords Council was shocked to say the least. Stiles had shown no preference for Magnus during the debates, directing almost all of his warlock-related questions and commentary towards Ragnor instead. If anyone, they thought perhaps he might choose an Unseelie candidate before one wasn’t given or failing that a Shifter or Druid as his partiality towards them had been as blatant as his having any interest in Magnus Bane had been hidden.

Though while most were distracted with that shock to their systems, Queen Etaín shared a dark look with her advisor. Not over the choice of Magnus Bane over Meliorn. No, choosing a High Warlock over a mere Knight was an understandable if frustrating choice. But over the _ritual_ the Unseelie bastard spoke of so cavalierly.

Because if it was the one she thought it was…then all those clauses in the Accords regarding breaking the Triumvirate or forcing them to choose a new partner with the death of a mortal partner had just vanished.

With not one but _two_ powerful immortals involved…and the possible bonding ritual that someone with the power of an Unseelie could perform…

No, it couldn’t be.

The Princes wouldn’t _dare_ not even for their bastard brother.

If not flying against the letter of angelic law it certainly would brazenly flaunt the spirit of it.

Gifting immortality to a mortal was _frowned upon_ by the heavenly host, to say the least.

From what the Queen understood of her histories, the taboo against it was so strong in the Host that Raziel had chosen to water down the powers of his Nephilim significantly by creating the Cup rather than simply allowing the Host to father _true_ Nephilim children with angelic parents in this realm.

It was simply ludicrous to entertain.

The very idea.

A Nephilim immortal? Let alone a _Lightwood_? She gave a mental scoff and allowed herself to be cossetted and pandered to by her advisor and knight.

Not even infuriating little Salil Darklight would _dare_ to create such a creature.

Not now, not in a million years.

…

“Who are they holding over your head?” Stiles lost no time in asked as soon as he’d turned his back to the room and effectively blocked the three of them from sight by lifting and fully extending his wings. He didn’t use them this way very often, not even in flight, but they made quite the effective if feathery wall when he did.

Alec let out a shaky sigh as Magnus pressed as close as possible to his side without fully embracing him, silent support in the wake of earth-shattering events, a move that Stiles noted without so much as a flicker of an eye. He already knew where he stood with them: a nonentity. If it weren’t for this stupid fucking decision to bring Etaín back in line, he had no doubt the two of them would’ve been sickeningly in love for however long they were given before Alec’s death.

It was already there to see in the early stages and had been since they met, only growing and blossoming in the week since and sure to spring into full-flower soon enough.

Stiles never would have done anything to get in between them.

If he’d already been with Alec, been willing to ignore his family name from the start and give in to his own fascination with the shadowhunter, that would’ve been different. But he hadn’t. He’d made his choice and now life or fate or Etaín feeling like being a difficult bitch was forcing him into a decision that was contrary to his nature by playing on a rather _defining_ aspect of it: Stiles’s desire to protect those he cared about.

And like it or not, over the last weeks he had grown to care about brave, gentle-hearted Alec Lightwood.

“Aline Penhallow.” Alec reported dully, sinking a bit into the warmth of Magnus at his side and lowering his lashes to avoid those glowing golden eyes of Stiles’s that always seemed to see way too much.

“Really?” Magnus hummed. That was interesting. “I would’ve thought the delightful Isabelle.”

“No,” Alec shook his head shortly. “Izzy’s considered rebellious but brilliant. They wouldn’t want to…” He trailed off, kind enough _not_ to repeat his mother’s exact phrasing or that of the Inquisitor to either warlock – or part-warlock?

“Waste her on me?” Stiles suggested, lifting his brows knowingly then rolled his eyes at the shocked look – the first time Alec actually raised his gaze high enough to meet his own since the Clave finished bullying him into agreement. “I figured. Though I was banking on it being you because they don’t want me to reproduce with a shadowhunter and further pollute the bloodlines to this Aline is a bit out of left field.”

“She’s the only other fully _out_ shadowhunter who’s an Institute heir.” Alec explained, shoulders hunching. “And she’s a friend.”

“Ah.” Stiles wrinkled his nose. “That explains it. At least they don’t consider me a rapist then and my point stands. Good to know I can still predict them thanks to Mother’s lessons on the Clave. Kinda sad that they haven’t changed enough in over two hundred years for me to stop seeing their decisions five steps ahead.”

“I can’t let them do that to her.” Alec said, voice hollow. “Being forced into an arranged marriage and having children as a result is literally her worst nightmare.”

Stiles sighed, rubbing the fingertips of his right hand over his furrowed forehead.

“Have you two even managed a first date yet?” He grumbled. “Though I _do_ appreciate that you’re saving me from an eternity of dealing with a Seelie spouse, Magnus, _especially_ the Queen’s Knight.”

Alec and Magnus shared a sheepish look that had Stiles snorting softly and rolling his eyes.

“Of course not.” He sighed. “Here’s what is going to happen. My brothers will perform the binding ritual. It’s similar from what I understand to a _parabatai_ bond but unlike the bond that snaps into place immediately, the binding of our people instead grows as the souls grow together. Starting out it will be faint, most likely entirely unnoticeable. I would expect yours,” he waved a hand at them. “To eventually grow much stronger than that, as strong as a _parabatai_ bond and no,” he answered with a _look_ at Alec who opened his mouth to ask a question. “It won’t alter your _parabatai_ bond with Jace in anyway.”

“You spoke of our bond to each other.” Magnus noted perceptively. “What of our bond to you?”

“Since all I am is what you have to suffer through in order to be together.” Stiles told them, voice so scrubbed of emotion and mild it might as well be robotic, his facial expression so hard and unmoving it could have been carved from granite. “I don’t expect it to ever grow or change except perhaps to weaken in time.”

With that he dropped his wings and spun to face the Accords Council, turning his head and nodding to Ailill who together with the other Unseelie Princes gathered the trio at the front of the chapel where during a Nephilim wedding ceremony a Silent Brother would stand and preside over the exchanging of runes.

…

Draethan stole his youngest brother, tugging him away from the group and spinning them in a motion guaranteed to force their wings to flare and mingle, creating a little bubble of feathery privacy in the center of the chapel as the Accords representatives gathered around the two triads that were forming up for the ritual that would bind Salil to his _chosen_ spouses possibly for all time.

“_Tell me you’re not doing this so _they_ can be happy.” _He demanded, staring fiercely down into that face that is so like his own only with their father’s eyes when he wasn’t wearing a glamor.

Salil had taken more from the Morning Star than anyone who’s never met him realized.

Like Aetheryn he had the same flawless pure ivory skin that never burned or tanned or altered in any way but he shared with father’s golden eyes with their eldest brother Gwrtheryn. His hair was the same rich dark brown as Draethan himself, and the shape of their faces was nearly identical. Honestly other than Kallisto’s mouth and ability to bear runes, there wasn’t much of the rebellious shadowhunter in the brother she gave the Unseelie Princes.

Anyone who saw Salil with his brothers, let alone their father, knew that he was one of them.

Unfortunately, that resemblance was in more than his looks or the three pairs of wings on his back that were different in coloring but identical in length and shape to their father’s. It was also there in that unmovable dedication to any cause deemed worthy of their attention. In their determination to stand and fight when others would falter and fall. And worst in a soul-deep belief that their own happiness was secondary to everything else when it came to those they allowed themselves to care about.

_“Salil,”_ Draethan was almost pleading, a rare sight for the tallest of the Unseelie Princes. _“Please. Don’t do this. Don’t bind yourself to them. Leave this realm to what it’s sown and come home with us.”_

_“I can’t, Draethan.”_ Stiles cupped his older brother’s beautiful face in his hands. _“I can’t abandon this world. Not as long as those I swore to protect are still alive. They may not be _our_ people, but they still are _my_ people.”_

_“Always so stubborn.”_

Stiles scoffed. _“If I was any other way you’d be wondering if Lucifer really _is_ my father.”_

…

They were positioned facing each other in a triangle formation, each of their shoulders touching those of the person who stood on either side. Their hands were guided to hold the wrists of their partners in an unbroken chain of connection that felt far too intimate for a mere _political expediency_ as Stiles had branded it. Of course, that was before his brothers co-opted what binding they were going to use to fulfill the terms of the Accords, so there was that.

A hush fell over the chapel as even the most contentious of the Accords Council were wary of disturbing the Unseelie Princes once they’d decided and set on their path.

Even Queen Etaín, her advisor, or her Knight Meliorn whose eyes all shot wide with varying degrees of disbelief mingled with outrage as the Seelie realized that what had only minutes before been the unthinkable had suddenly become the imminent.

And the Princes _being_ the Princes there was no one who would dare to _stop_ them from their current actions – at least no one who wasn’t a realm away and that was _if_ either their eldest brother Crown Prince Gwrtheryn or their father Lucifer deigned to hear let alone answer a summons from a _Seelie_.

Ailill rested one hand solemly on the shoulder of Salil then took the hand of Aetheryn to his left, Aetheryn following with Magnus and Draethen, then Draethan with the Lightwood shadowhunter and Ailill to complete the circle at his prompting nod.

There were no words, no chanting, no sudden flashes of light or overwhelming pressure or presence of magic.

No, as the Princes closed their eyes and what could be described as nothing less than _power_ cycled between them and the triad they were joining together in a bond soul-deep.

Alec and Magnus sucked in surprised breaths, eyes that had fallen closed at the first soothing wave of cool-tinged power snapping open, when a mere flash of an instant before the Princes released their hold on their left shoulders a distinct _snap-snap-snap_ of something within them breaking apart and then reforming in an entirely new shape to allow the presence of the two new bonds connecting them occurred and _ached_ and burned them with a blazing warmth they could only call _Stiles_ or _Alec/Magnus_ from the inside out.

That hint of uniquely _Stiles_ was toned down, muffled but not smothered, a heartbeat after it burrowed its way inside of them in the same moment as the Princes released their grips on his new bondmates.

Alec’s end of the bonds followed a moment later, the shadowhunter experienced with soulbonds from his _parabatai_ to know how to regulate it, and Magnus following their example caught on quickly.

And it was done.

The Accords were satisfied.

Now all they had to do was actually _do_ the job they’d just had to get Unseelie-married for and hunt down Valentine.

Compared to having their very _souls_ reformed, the triad having a whole new yardstick to measure tasks against even if all they did was stand there and let the Princes fiddle about with their lights and clockwork, those tasks didn’t seem entirely insurmountable.

Not when they knew down to their very bones the type of persons they were joined to.

The sorts of things they each were capable of.

…

“Well, that was bracing.” Magnus snarked. “All we’re missing is Malcolm’s snappy commentary and we’d have ourselves a real _party_.” He commented as he and Stiles took turns – now that Stiles had keyed him into the warding array – to send the various dignitaries who _hadn’t_ brought entourages home via portal rather than trotting so many high-value targets to Valentine back through the Institute once Stiles pulls down the wards entirely.

Which meant they couldn’t just send the Seelie back to their realm or the Clave reps to Idris – damnit – but that they _could_ release the djinn, druids, Nefertari, Tessa, and so on out to start disseminating the information on the new Accords _before_ the Clave had a chance to put their own _unique _spin on things.

Neither Etaín or the Clave reps were pleased about that to say the least but were in such a position that complaining about Magnus and Stiles being concerned with the safety of the other representatives would be churlish _at best_. Both had already had their plans not work out entirely in their favor. And Etaín being Etaín and the Clave being the Clave, neither of them was going to invite _more_ humiliation at the hands of either the Unseelie – who’d thus far showed approximately zero inclination to go _anywhere_ with their brother the target of an active Valentine Morganstern – or the warlocks for hopefully a good amount of time.

Not that it would secure their good behavior indefinitely, but Magnus could hope.

“You’re behind the times, my friend.” Ragnor chuckled as Stiles shot him a glare. “Dear Malcolm rather bit off more than he could chew, oh,” he hummed under his breath. “What was it, sixty years ago? Seventy?”

“Nineteen Forty-Five.” Stiles answered shortly. “Seventy-two years ago come Samhain.”

“They call it Halloween now.” Draethan reminded his brother – mainly just to be irritating and try and take his mind off of that spectacular specimen of an asshole warlock and the trauma he’d inflicted before he was put down. There was only so much even an Unseelie – or an Unseelie hybrid – can take in one shot before snapping.

And when one of them snapped, people tended to die.

Painfully.

Whilst screaming.

Case in point: like Malcolm Fade.

“Oh really?” Magnus hummed, glad to have that grudge-carrying bastard off his backburner even if he always mourned the loss of one of his own – however despicable they might turn out in the end. “Hoisted on his petard or simply made the wrong enemy?”

“Yes.” All three of the Princes and Stiles answered in unison, snagging the attention of pretty much _everyone_ still lingering for whatever reason, whether waiting for their turn at a portal or for Stiles to bring down the wards.

“I was interested now color me intrigued.” Helen leaned on Alec’s shoulders which he took with a put-upon sigh that spoke of many, _many_ prior instances having taught him the futility of fighting her when she used him as a prop. Given that she was older than him to the point of being the irritating older sister he’d never wanted or wished for, it wasn’t a faulty assumption for Magnus to make. “What’d he do? Or if that’s boring, what’d _you_ do Stiles?” She grinned eagerly which had Stiles rolling his eyes with a sigh.

Heaven _and_ Hell willing, Helen Blackthorn would never meet either Laura or Cora Hale.

He didn’t think this dimension could survive that much shit-starter energy in one room.

Draethan arched a brow at Stiles, the only one of the brothers who’d actually been involved as the – now former – Prince who’d kept an eye on events in this dimension before they all, including their father, learned of Stiles’s existence. Stiles grimaced but nodded. He sure as shit wasn’t going to rehash what all happened especially in such mixed company but he was – not _fine_ – but resigned with Draethan giving them enough information to shut them all up about it.

“Malcolm Fade was obsessed with returning his dead lover to life.” Draethan narrated succinctly. “He made deals with all sorts of powers and entities – or tried – before he grew desperate enough to risk his chances with a demon.” 

Winces or looks of disgust circled the room at that bit of stupidity. Bargaining with a demon was _always_ a losing proposition, even at times for warlocks who in some cases were more powerful in the mortal realm than lesser powered demons. And given Fade’s level of obsession, he _hadn’t_ gone after a lower-powered demon.

“Raiden wasn’t that bad, all things considered.” Stiles said, voice detached as his comment earned him _looks_. “For a Chaos demon of the Outer Void, anyway.”

“He _didn’t_.” Magnus whipped his head around and stared at his new bondmate even as the rock-hard _certainty_ that was all he could feel – as vague and whispy as it was – through their link.

“Oh, he did.” Draethan confirmed, shaking his head. “By the time he was done trying to _feed my brother_ to it, he was lucky to be a smear of filth on the grass.”

“Well, that’s horrifying for multiple reasons.” Magnus noted as he and Stiles closed the current portal behind the last of the shifters – Talia, who’d given Stiles a _look_ at the mention of Raiden the Chaos Demon that Magnus didn’t have enough background information to decipher – and prepared to open the last one, this time to Los Angeles for Helen Blackthorn before Stiles would have to drop the wards and face the wolves of the Shadow World lurking beyond the chapel doors. “I’ll take a raincheck on the rest of that story.”

“Agreed.” Alec chimed in from where he was standing stiffly beside the Accords scribe Brother Zachariah, arms crossed defensively over his chest. “Tonight, over drinks at Magnus’s loft. After all,” his glance at the Consul and Inquisitor was pure snarky sass. “We’re newlyweds. I doubt Valentine is going to wait around for us to have a honeymoon but if we’re expected to perform the duties bestowed on us by the Accords as the Triumvirate time to learn of each other, however brief, will be necessary.”

The sour-faced looks on the two Clave authorities did more to warm the cockles of Magnus’s heart than a glass of mulled wine on a cold winter’s night.

And from the smirk on Stiles’s – Salil’s, with immortals it was ever-problematic trying to pin down what names they actually preferred rather than what they were simply known by – face he agreed with Magnus’s spiteful sentiment.

Just in time too, as a moment later the final portal closed, Stiles sharing a bracing glance with his brothers, and with a slash of his arm the wards surrounding the chapel came down.

Looking back on it later, Magnus wouldn’t _quite_ call it all hell breaking loose – he was far too familiar with the denizens of the hell dimensions for that – but in the moment there wasn’t much difference as the sound of battle and calls to arms rang through the New York Institute with the clamor of the Institute’s ward alarms sounding like a siren in their ears.

_Someone_ had breeched the vaunted wards of the New York Enclave’s base of operations, not breaking through – no, Magnus could tell the wards were still very much intact – but rather finding a loophole of some kind and exploiting it.

My my.

Now _that_ simply will not do.

After all, he had a honeymoon to get to and the promise of what seemed to be _quite_ the tale to engage him.

Among _other_ things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For more information about my stories (fanfic and original) find me on Facebook at: https://www.facebook.com/sif.shadowheart
> 
> Or follow me on Twitter: https://twitter.com/AbramsSif


	13. Chapter 13

** Hunter’s Bane **

**Chapter Thirteen: Overkill**

“I don’t suppose you’d be interested in that one-way portal to Idris _now_, would you?” Stiles asked in pure exasperation as Alec was given a briefing two steps away once the spells came down from the chapel doors and the Institute’s head of security – as well as the remaining pair of security details for the Seelie Queen and the Clave reps – rushed inside, the former updating his commander with no sign of the elder Lightwoods anywhere to be seen while the latter pretty much accomplished nothing but making a giant nuisance of themselves.

“We’ll take it.” The tall, built form of the Clave’s escort barked out, showing approximately zero fear in the wake of the spluttering from his superiors as he stared down the Consul without flinching.

A feat that drew admiring glances from more than one of the remaining members of the Accords Council, including all three of the Unseelie Princes.

“You must return to the Wander Woods as soon as possible, milady.” Meliorn’s tone was more apologetic but no less immovable than the Clave security officer’s and the redhead – who’d put her glamor back on as soon as the wards dropped, much like the warlocks including Stiles who was back to seeming innocuous, for a warlock – nodded in resignation. There were certain things that wise people learned never to bother arguing. A bodyguard carrying out their duty was one of them.

Otherwise they might be treated to a most _ignoble_ experience of being tossed over a shoulder and carted off like so much baggage, as Etaín had learned and tested Meliorn over only _once_ before learning to obey when it came to the matter of her immediate safety.

Magnus and Stiles nodded then turned back to back and cast simultaneous portals, Magnus’s to Idris and Stiles’s to the Wander Woods as, as an Unseelie if only partly, he had a much easier time of traversing the dimensional waves.

Now ask him to punch through the warding on Idris and toss out the Clave members into their grand courtyard and he would have a problem.

They gestured for the two parties and everyone breathed a heavy sigh of relief at their departures, though casting so many portals back-to-back-to-back even sharing power by doing it as a joint cast for the earlier portals like Magnus and Stiles had done had taken their tolls on the pair of warlocks.

Stiles smirked, enjoying a joke that only he – and maybe his brothers depending on _how close_ of a read they’d taken of the Alliance Scroll or the warding on the chapel – was aware of.

If it weren’t for the emergency currently sounding claxons overhead – of whatever sort it might be – Stiles would pay _a lot_ to be there in the Seelie Court the moment Etaín tried to open her mouth to speak of the information gained during the Accords signing only to find herself unable to share it in any way, shape, or form and forced to _choke_ on her frustrations thereby.

People _really_ should learn to read between the lines when it came to having the sons of Lucifer involved – any and every last one of them – in writing up contracts.

Things like secrecy clauses to protect their own interests wouldn’t be nearly so shocking to others – nor satisfying to themselves – if they did.

Etaín and the others would find in short order that _all_ they could share were the details of the new Accords treaty – nothing more, nothing less, not even the _identity_ of the full Triumvirate until those in question shared it themselves.

Granted, Stiles didn’t have the Triumvirate in mind when he’d stuck in that handy little clause, more in line with protecting his status and identity as a son of Lucifer as much as possible and planning for worst-case scenarios, but he was certainly glad that it’d been included nonetheless.

While they were busy with getting the others out of the way, Alec was getting his briefing.

“We have seven or eight of them attacking between all of the entrances.” Raj reported briskly, handing over a tablet with the security camera views on a divided screen. “They look like Forsaken but they didn’t pop up on the sensors and came through the wards like they didn’t even exist.”

Alec looked up to find himself the subject of piercing stares from four pairs of glowing eyes.

Oh.

Stiles’s eyes weren’t because he was a warlock then as his brothers all had luminous irises in a lighter lit-up shade of their “normal” eye color.

Alright then.

Noted.

“Where do you want us, _brother_?” Draethan asked, rolling his shoulders and snapping his wings out, the edges of his feathers gaining a silver gleam like polished metal and a glowing sword – a seraph’s blade held by an _actual_ seraph and glowing golden as a result, like Stiles’s magic – in one hand.

Ailill nodded when Alec cut his gaze over towards the nominal leader of the Unseelie, the lithe prince echoing his younger brother’s motion though rather than a sword he held a bow with a quiver on his back, at his side the blond Aetheryn spinning a gleaming _adamas_ spear in his hand, a large - broadsword maybe - hilt peeking up over the edge of his shoulder where it was sheathed at his back.

Then Stiles stepped into line with his brothers rather than standing beside Magnus and Ragnor, only rather than gleaming seraph blades his were an inky black that seemed to swallow the light and almost _screamed_ of malevolent origins.

Hellfire blades.

Alec’s new…_bondmate_ used hellfire forged karambit daggers, some of the most dangerous melee weapons in _any_ dimension.

Because _of course_ he did.

What else should Alec expect of a person sired by the King of Hell – other titles aside _that’s_ exactly who Lucifer was – and called _brother_ by the ruling Princes of the Unseelie?

“The Unseelie to the back entrance,” he ordered, flicking a glance at Stiles who nodded, knowing better than most exactly where Alec spoke of. “They’re the worst off.” As the quartet disappeared in a flutter of feathers – literally there one moment and gone the next – Alec blinked and shook his head. “Magnus, Ragnor, can you try and figure out how they’re not registering to the Institute wards?”

“Of course.” Magnus nodded, smiling softly at Alexander. “For my usual fee.”

Alec rolled his eyes. “Of course.” He echoed. At least he knew Magnus wasn’t going to let their new relationship impinge one their positions in the Shadow World. That was one question answered before he’d had much time to consider it. “Meliorn and Luke, will you split off to,” he pointed to the locations of the stray Forsaken on the map he brought up of the Institute. “Here and here? Raj and Marcus will accompany you.”

Their agreement secured, Alec tossed the tablet on the table and darted off by himself at a lope to the front entrance.

Where his _parabatai_, sister, and the rampant annoyance that was Clary Fairchild were being pressed by a pair of Forsaken that were more than even Jace and Izzy could handle with only backup from an untrained Nephilim.

Because, to echo his thoughts about his most troublesome of his bondmates, _of course they were_.

…

“You know, I always knew Salil was special.” Ragnor mused as he and his oldest friend brought up the ward matrices for the Institute as the faint sounds of battle rang through the hallowed halls of the austere – but nonetheless beautiful – old building. “There was _something_ about Kallisto that drew the eye. She glowed with life, vibrant with inner fire,” he sighed as he worked his way through the puzzle of the wards. Such things were more the domains of his protégé and Magnus but he still knew more than most thanks to his age. “Right up until the day she died. A trait that Salil inherited as much from his Darklight half as the Unseelie, though at the time,” he had to admit. “And for many many years until this evening, I was convinced that his father was one of the more powerful princes of Hell. I had no notion of his true pedigree anymore than Salil himself did. After all,” he arched a knowing brow at his friend with his own impressive pedigree on the paternal side. “Fallen angels of more than one type it seems tend to breed powerful and lovely children. Abaddon perhaps, or Azazel.” He smirked at Magnus. “_Far_ to European in looks to be your brother, dear one, for which we should all be thankful. I’m not sure the world will ever be ready for _two_ Magnus Banes running amok.”

Magnus scoffed, even as he stared with concentration at the ward matrices, suggesting absently that they focus on targeting them for _undead_ – if they could come up with such a thing in a way that wouldn’t prevent the Enclave from burying their dead or taking bodies to the morgue – before deigning to respond to his dear little cabbage.

“I am _singular_, I’ll have you know.” He said with a haughty sniff in lieu of a flick of his hand – busy with the wards, naturally – over his hair. “Though I rather _doubt_ that your mild power of prescience would have been able to discern that two centuries into the future the child you agreed to mentor would end up being bound to _me_ for all eternity.”

Or until one of them died anyway which given: warlock, warlock-Unseelie-Shadowhunter nightmare of a hybrid, such an end _wasn’t likely_.

He only wished he could say the same for Alexander but _that_ was a subject their romance – binding to unite the Shadow World or not – was far too fresh to waste precious time fussing over.

When Alexander’s hair started to silver, _then_ Magnus could worry himself to the bone.

Until then, he’d rather not borrow trouble.

They had plenty enough of that on their own without Magnus helping it along, and this new binding was only one of a dozen other things currently filling their days and weighing down their shoulders.

“Maybe not.” Ragnor hummed in agreement as he added a special _twist_ to the wards he’d picked up from the last time Stiles worked on the ones at his England Lake Country cottage, Magnus nodding in approval and then extrapolating to a greater extent than Ragnor’s power lent itself to doing. “But there _is_ a lovely symmetry to my teaching your new spouse enough magic for the boy to survive to bind himself to you two centuries later when most of my own defensive magics – beyond those that were instinctual – were taught to me by yourself.”

Magnus grimaced.

He _hated_ having to give in to Ragnor during any of their debates or discussions, a terrible habit both of them had when dealing with the other.

But he couldn’t deny it.

There _was_ an interesting symmetry – or a terrible irony – in that the trap Magnus had walked into that day had been laid, little did they know it, over two hundred years ago when his closest friend and one of his first students after leaving his father’s side in Edom helped a rogue shadowhunter escape her oppressive society and ended up mentoring her warlock child.

Fate was _such_ a bitch like that.

A final twist of Magnus’s wrist and a flare of his power and all the Institute systems suddenly began registering the strange mutated Forsaken – downed bodies and the pair that according to the wards were still fighting – and the alarms _shrieked_ in a whole new eardrum-piercing register.

Ragnor felt for where the two were – and who was around them – then sent off Magnus towards the front of the Institute with a jaunty: “Well, that’s that handled. Go save your shadowhunter beau. We’ll catch up later, once things have truly calmed down, yes?” And a there-then-gone portal that he popped through with a speed belying his indolent country gentleman façade.

For his part Magnus only rolled his eyes than summoned a portal of his own, stepping through and out into chaos as he walked out the other side and at the back of the attacking Forsaken that didn’t even flinch at the magical wave of power that _should_ have drawn their attention.

Well now.

That was interesting.

But first a delectable – and adorable – shadowhunter to save _then_ the mystery to solve.

Or, well, _another _mystery.

He still wanted that story of what happened – and what Stiles/Salil _did_ and/or had done to him by – with Malcolm Fade and a Chaos demon from the _Outer fucking Void_.

…

From the taken aback _looks_ on the faces of the shadowhunters who were still standing between the trio of strange Forsaken that were tearing through them like tinfoil – a _massive_ clue that the creatures weren’t normal Forsaken – being far stronger like the one that Alec and Lydia returned from the Jade Wolf with the remains of, the shadowhunters weren’t expecting their rescue or any rescue let alone for it to come from a quartet of beings appearing out of thin air.

The wings that his brothers didn’t bother concealing from mortal eyes likely didn’t help – especially the way Aetheryn in particular was infamous for using said-wings as part hammer lashing out with the flat of the wing or like a sword with the cutting edge of his feathers.

Hearing them cat-call and heckle each other in the middle of fighting the far-too-strong Forsaken probably didn’t help with their impression of the Unseelie either.

What could Stiles say?

They were all warriors born and bred even if his older brothers _have_ been fighting for literal thousands of years.

It showed where Stiles still was flamboyant and flashy at times in his fighting style while the others were pure economy – they _had been_ warriors for so long that they never did any more than exactly what they _had_ to do in any fight.

Grinning viciously Stiles dove in with spinning karambits tearing and slashing through Forsaken flesh as he dodged and spun in dazzling unison with his older brothers.

Ailill seeing that his younger brothers had things well in-hand – and holding in a sigh over the things he did for them, like let them steal all the opponents when he loved a fight as much as the next Unseelie – moved to work on healing the Nephilim that were scattered about the hidden entrance to the Institute like so much broken toys. If they were a different species – one with demonic blood – he wouldn’t be able to scan and heal them with a touch though they would still be exhausted for hours as a result of having their bodies forced to heal. To be honest: he flat-out didn’t _like_ Nephilim – crazy-assed idea of one of his angelic former-“brothers” in arms or not. Expending even the negligible energy it took to put them back to perfect health was more than he was willing to do for them. That he bothered to heal them _at all_ side effects or not was _far_ more than they would’ve gotten from Draethan for example.

If Ailill didn’t like the Nephilim, the way his brother felt about them after watching them tear through this realm like a pack of sight-righteous rabid hyenas could be _at best_ described as loathing.

And even _that_ was an improvement that’s come about because of Salil and his mother.

Stiles taunted the Forsaken he was battling as his brothers danced around him in utter sync that reminded the few shadowhunters watching them think of _parabatai_ though in the case of Aetheryn and Draethan it was more experience from spending thousands of years fighting together as Sword and Shield.

In moments the trio of overpowered Forsaken that had batted the shadowhunters around like dolls were down to two and then to only Stiles’s one as he toyed with it more out of needing to expend some temper before he blew, gathering information on how they fought as an afterthought. 

Aetheryn’s wings flashed and caught the light as he sliced across the first’s back the Forsaken roaring and spreading his arms wide in unconscious reflex – and leaving his chest open for Draethan’s blade to plunge through its heart and tear the entire chest-cavity wide-open with a burst of angelic strength. His brother tsked at the mess, Draethan already turning to cleave away the next Forsaken’s arm at the shoulder, Aetheryn laughing tauntingly as he jumped high, wings flaring, and then snapped his wings down in a powerful propulsion forward, his spear finding the now-vulnerable joint of neck and shoulder as Draethan kicked the Forsaken back with a swift kick to its chest and into the line of the attack. The shining _adamas_ spear tore though the Forsaken’s upper chest and torso – ripping through lungs, stomach, and liver before pinning the Forsaken to the ground.

“Really, Aethy?” Draethan looked up at the hovering – and smug – form of his older brother (by all of a few minutes.) “And you tsked _me_ for overkill?”

“Oh not for overkill.” Aetheryn smirked, flicking his silver-white hair as he waved pompously at the congealed Forsaken blood that drenched Draethan’s wings and chest. “For being _messy_ about it.”

“Really?” Draethan craned his head and shot a _knowing_ look behind him at where their youngest brother was still cackling like a madman and dancing around the Forsaken, slashing it to pieces that the undead beast was too mindless – and too undead for the inherent poison of the hellfire blades to affect it – to react to other than taking swipes at Salil that the youngest of the Unseelie was far too fast to be caught by. “Compared to _that_, I’m messy?”

Aetheryn sniffed yanking his spear free of the Forsaken and twirling it to clear it of congealed blood.

“Salil is a _baby_.” He countered fiercely, glaring at his fraternal twin. “Two hundred and some years old. Little more than a _fetus_ compared to the rest of us. If _he_ wants to mess around and have to magic blood off of his _everything_ then that’s his prerogative. He’s still learning. _You_ are a Prince and General of the Unseelie. _You_ know better.”

With a flash and an eyeroll, Stiles banished his daggers back to their hidden holsters and switched to magic.

“You know I can _hear you_, right?” He drawled even as he slashed out with one hand and a golden whip of power lashed out and encircled the Forsaken’s neck then _yanked_ up. A snap of his fingers transformed the golden whip-turned-noose into a vicious circle of magical razor wire, the Forsaken’s head rolling away from its body as flesh and bone were parted with a mere thought. “Huh. Resistant to angelic weapons – except for killing blows,” he noted strolling around the bodies, ignoring the goggling from the watching shadowhunters. “Or the poison on my blades but fell with ease to magic.” He pursed his lips looking over at his brothers who’d sheathed their weapons – or in the case of Ailill finished healing the Nephilim.

As the others watched his eyes flickered in and out of their golden glow, clearly doing _something_ with his magic.

“The others are down.” He reported, then flicked a glance down at the corpses with a grimace. A spin and wave of this hands had a portal to the morgue opening up then with a wave of his hand the Forsaken bodies were dumped through it. “Let’s go see what the others have figured out about those _things_.”

…

Striding into the Ops Center of the Institute with his brothers at his back, Stiles cocked his head in curiosity at the sight he found waiting for him – specifically Hodge Starkweather being held in an iron grip between a semi-wolfed-out Derek and Raphael’s vampiric strength, the two forcing him with ease to his knees, and Darius del Rey, Derek’s older brother who once as Stiles’s druid apprentice who he had turned over guardianship of the Beacon Hills convergence point holding a ring between his thumb and forefinger.

The shadowhunters surrounding them were itching to grab weapons, it could be read in every line of their bodies, but only Alec who was standing between his people with Magnus at his side and the trio of downworlders who were holding Starkweather captive.

Taking a quick headcount, Stiles estimated that half of the on-duty shadowhunters or those who were roused at the alarm were present, an educated guess putting the rest either securing the Institute, scouring the grounds, or injured or escorting the injured to the Institute’s infirmary.

Wordlessly, Darius held out the ring to Stiles as he came within range, not moving an inch otherwise from staring down the shadowhunters – a good thing given that he held an enchanted dagger Stiles gifted him personally upon the maturation of his druidic powers to Starkweather’s throat with the hand _not_ containing the ring.

Arching a brow, Stiles took the simple little thing, not much more than engraved silver set with a clouded crystal. A moment and a magical scan later, and Stiles looked over at his friend and distant relative-by-marriage. The smirk on Darius’s face shouted that he knew _exactly_ what that ring was.

“Oh, Darius love.” Stiles _purred_ over the words. “You shouldn’t have. It’s not even my birthday.”

Derek grimaced, shifting as he made a face that said he had a foul taste in his mouth.

“Could you _not_?” He repeated his common complaint whenever the two of them were around each other. “It’s just _creepy_ when you two flirt. Almost as bad as when Uncle Peter creeps on Stiles.”

Darius snorted, turning his head to eye his younger brother.

“You know he just does that to fuck with you, right?” He commented snarkily. “If there was _ever_ a wolf happily mated it’s Uncle Peter.”

“That doesn’t make it better.”

“Enough.” The quiet power behind the word worked a treat to silence the bickering brothers. “This,” Stiles held up the ring to his new bondmates as the shadowhunters around them drew up like wire one second from snapping at the banter. “Is an enchanted communication ring.” He handed it over to Magnus in wordless expectation that the older warlock would double check his findings. “The _taint_ on it is odd. Not unlike the Forsaken. A twisted amalgamation of angelic rune-work and demonic power.”

“Valentine.” Magnus hissed, eyes flashing cat-golden for a moment before the glamor stabilized.

Stiles hummed, flicking his hand and binding Starkweather at wrist and ankle to the floor in the crouched position his friends had already put him in then added a collar around his neck, snapping his head down and forward as the three downworlders stepped away, Stiles beginning to pace in a circle around the bound disgraced Circle member whose red circle rune was burning red and obvious due to a tear in his shit.

Derek’s doing or Stiles was a hamster.

There was a reason Derek was the child of the Hale pack who would be taking over their political/legal dealings once he was finished with his law degree and had a few years’ experience under his belt. And it had nothing to do with his at-times surliness added to his introversion and _everything_ to do with a brain that was strategic on a level that both Stiles and Peter had done everything they could to cultivate since the first time Derek almost beat his uncle at chess. Of the trio, it was Derek who would think ahead to the statement – no matter how minor – that such a move as showing the rune would have.

“Report.” Stiles fell into place between Magnus and Alec as the third head of their Triumvirate, facing Darius, Derek, and Raphael as they all ignored the silent shadowhunter at their feet.

Starkweather had turned milk-pale with rage – or fear or resignation, it was a bit hard to gauge though might well be a combination of all three – which only made his runes, including the red Circle, that much more prominent.

As Darius spoke, more and more of the New York Enclave gathered, filling in wherever they could find – or make – space, being joined in time by Meliorn and the other remaining downworlders who’d been helping with the Forsaken attack and mop-up.

“I may not be able to portal as a druid but as a Guardian I can travel via convergence points.” He shrugged. “I came out the closest to the Institute as I could manage and found lunkhead,” he titled his head towards his younger brother who rolled his expressive hazel eyes now that he’d pulled back most of the wolf. “Holding off a Forsaken from eating asshole here,” he waved nonchalantly down at Starkweather. “Stoic-and-fangy showed up while I was lighting up the Forsaken like an old oak in a thunderstorm. He fussed over Derek while I boosted his healing and we turned to find asshole pocketing that ring from the Forsaken. We, ah, _took him into custody_.” Darius grinned, running his tongue along his teeth, Meliorn watching with _far_ too much interest for Stiles’s preference but then Seelie _did_ tend to be drawn towards druids and vise versa due to the shared link to nature. He shrugged again, very much a _Hale_ for all that he’d taken his father’s name when he decided to follow the druid path rather than accept the Bite from his mother at fifteen. “Then we waited for you to finish playing, _jefe_.”

Stiles rubbed one hand over his forehead. Apparently in his absence Darius had been spending _entirely_ too much time with Peter. Great.

“What do we know about how the Forsaken got through the wards?” Alec asked – more in general than directed at any one person – casting his gaze over the motley gathering of shadowhunters standing with varying degrees of discomfort with downworlders, almost shoulder-to-shoulder in some cases. He frowned lightly as he realized Lydia was no where to be seen, sparing her a moment’s concern. She might work for the Inquisitor’s office now but she was still a field-rated shadowhunter. Her absence meant injury – either her own or that of someone she’d had to escort to the infirmary.

“Despite being undead creatures.” Magnus filled them in. “They weren’t registering to the wards as demonic in nature. Ragnor and I had to key the wards in specifically undead creatures on top of the existing alerts regarding demonic blood for them to appear on the Institute’s sensors.”

“Per the new Shadow World treaty that has been signed and ratified.” Alec announced to the Institute at large after a soft word with his sister, Izzy handing over a tablet with the system-wide PA brought up. “An oversight body known as the Triumvirate has been formed with authority to oversee trials and sentencing, handle appeals, or otherwise arbitrate disputes between _all people_ of the Shadow World both Nephilim and Downworlder.”

Meliorn arched a brow in faint approval at the bold stance the new – official – head of the Institute was taking.

“One of the necessary qualifying points for a member of the Triumvirate was that they held a position of authority and/or esteem among their people. As a result, as of,” he glanced at the time on the tablet, arching a brow in surprise at how little time had passed in the physical world while they’d been held in the chapel’s wards. “Eighteen-oh-five this evening the Clave Consul and Inquisitor have instated me, Alec Lightwood, as the official Head of the New York Institute and Enclave.” He watched as Izzy pulled up the security cameras on the Ops Center screens and showed Hodge’s fight against the Forsaken from the moment the creature breeched the training room until the “smoking gun” moment of Hodge riffling through the pockets of the creature and attempting to hide the ring it had carried. And saw for himself what _taking him into custody_ amounted to for the trio of downworlders who caught him. “Per the agreement,” he rattled off the entire chapter, page, line, and sub-line number and notations of the new treaty. “…dash A, any member of the Nephilim found guilty of being an active Circle member, colluding with Circle members, or assisting Circle members or Valentine Morganstern in any way are guilty of treason and are to be executed with extreme prejudice.” He turned a pitiless gaze that hid how he was bleeding inside at the betrayal on Hodge.

He wasn’t Izzy or Jace, the latter wrapping his arms around Izzy as she sobbed, and covered her eyes, both of them obviously torn to pieces like Alec but unlike him allowing it to show.

He couldn’t afford a show of emotion.

Not now.

Not during his first act as a member of the Triumvirate.

“Hodge Starkweather, you are guilty of treason against the Clave and will be interrogated via the Soul Sword for any and all information you have regarding the Circle or the plans of Valentine Morganstern before being put to death.”

Canceling the PA announcement with that, he handed the tablet over to Raj who was visibly limping and should probably be in the infirmary with the other wounded, then looked at an approving if empathetic Magnus.

“Can you portal…?” He began to ask only to be preempted by Ailill darting forward, clamping a hand on Hodge’s shoulder, and then disappearing with that same odd flapping/rustling feathers sound that accompanied the faster-than-sight movement of the Unseelie. “Never mind then.” He blinked, turning to ask Stiles for an explanation with a glance.

“Warlocks, even powerful High Warlocks, can’t portal directly into the City of Bones and anything else would pose an unnecessary security risk.” He answered without bickering or hesitation. “Unseelie don’t have the same restrictions. My brother,” the claiming of such had a murmur – mostly of confusion – running through the shadowhunter ranks. “Will hand Starkweather over to the Silent Brothers and oversee his interrogation _personally.”_

“Alec?” Lydia, with a wrapped and bandaged shoulder and looking rather the worse for wear, pushed through the crowded Ops center. “What the _hell_ happened at the summit?” She asked utterly confused. “And why did the Consul order your parents back to Idris immediately?”

Holding in the desire to sigh, Alec first turned towards the remaining downworlder representatives.

Before he let her in on what happened – crafting a memo to go out to the entire New York Enclave while he was at it – he needed to send them off first.

There were some things he’d rather not have Queen’s Knight or the Head of the Dumort Clan witness – and yes, he saw Luke Garroway over having a hushed, and teary, conversation with Clary – and among them was the reaction some members of the Institute were going to have at the sudden new status quo in the Shadow World.

Even if, at his heart, while he hated what it’d taken to get there he couldn’t help but hope it would be a good thing – and one giant step forward in the work of unifying the Shadow World against Valentine _and_ the demons.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For more information about my stories (fanfic and original) find me on Facebook at: https://www.facebook.com/sif.shadowheart
> 
> Or follow me on Twitter: https://twitter.com/AbramsSif


	14. Chapter 14

** Hunter’s Bane **

**Chapter Fourteen: The Impossibility of Salil Darklight**

The moment the new treaty was ratified and the Accords signed, a copy had been sent to every leader of the Shadow World with the new terms from the smallest local leader to the very desks of those such as the Seelie Queen and the Unseelie King – despite them existing in different dimensions altogether.

Brother Zachariah was…_efficient_ like that.

Needless to say, the New York Enclave had been _a tad occupied_ at the time, though Alec had wasted no time from scanning the copy into the Institute’s database and disseminating it in a not just NYC-wide email to his own people but in a Clave-wide international one as well, along with a short briefing regarding the chosen members of the Triumvirate complete with snapshot bios pulled from the Clave’s database.

It wasn’t a full account of the new détente of the Shadow World, but it was enough for the moment.

Especially since after the Forsaken attack on the Institute and the lock-down he initiated for anything other than standard assigned patrols into the city – including travel to and from Idris and Alicante – which had followed on the heels of the most tumultuous – and politically dangerous – day of his life, he was feeling more than a bit exhausted and wanting nothing more than to collapse onto one of the far-too-comfortable couches in Magnus’s apartment.

With a drink.

And a few moments to just…_be_ before having to deal with the everything of everything that’d happened in the last twenty-four hours.

Like suddenly being one of the highest authorities in the Shadow World.

Or maybe, being _bound_ – forever unless he’d seriously misread something – to not only his there-might-be-something-there not-yet-a-boyfriend Magnus but also the dangerous in a scary-but-hot way warlock who was apparently an Unseelie-Shadowhunter hybrid.

_Shadowhunter_, not Nephilim, a distinction that was more important now than ever with the discovery of Stiles’s heritage. His mother hadn’t been an unruned Nephilim or Nephilim descendent. She’d been a full-fledged Shadowhunter and _clearly _she’d taught her son a thing or two about hunting and killing over the years.

Seeing a runed Shadowhunter with _wings_ and glowing eyes was going to take getting used to, to say the least.

Even if Stiles normally used a rune or a glamor to cover them – wings or runes, depending on the situation. Or if Stiles had been _more_ than clear that when it came to assigning _status_, he was an Unseelie first, a warlock second, and a downworlder through and through before he even _started_ considering his Shadowhunter side. Which was actually a relief for Alec. Being expected to lead and command his siblings was bad enough. Having to try and do the same with his…_bondmate_ who he’d be expected to marry soon as a sign that the Clave was holding up their half – third? – of the union was a nightmare he was ecstatic to dodge.

So yeah, it was a relief to ignore the expectant gazes of his siblings and half the Institute as he left his office – _his office_, not his parents’ office any longer, even in name-only – the other half either injured, sleeping off injuries or the battle-high, or burying their heads in their tablets to read up on the new laws that they’d be expected to abide by as he strode out onto the catwalk over the Ops Center where his new bondmates were waiting.

The other downworlders – reps and otherwise – had left with varying degrees of acceptance over their removal from witnessing any further Clave drama for one night.

Strangely enough, the two remaining Unseelie Princes had been the most accepting of Alec’s wishes, merely exchanging looks with their youngest brother – yet another thing he had to adjust to – then _fluttering_ away. Which was a security nightmare by the way. He was _not_ looking forward to the Clave reaction when they got to the part in his incident report that made it clear all the protections in the world meant precisely diddly squat when it came to keeping Unseelie – though whether the Princes alone or their _entire fucking race_ – out of some of the most secured places on the planet like the New York Institute. Or the City of Bones. Extrapolating from that, he honestly didn’t think even the wards around Idris or their city of Alicante would do the job if the Unseelie were able to come and go at will from the others.

_Maybe_ the Adamant Citadel and home of the Iron Sisters might keep them out but even then he wasn’t willing to bet on it.

Mark that up as question two hundred and fourteen he had to ask Stiles with little hope of getting any, let alone a straight, answer regarding.

Only five more on that list that seemed to never _end_ since the moment Clary Fray blew into his life and sent it spiraling out of control and he’d have the exact number of unanswered questions about Stiles or the Unseelie in general or how by the _Angel_ his _runed _mother carried a hybrid to term as Stiles was supposedly old.

There was a distinct _tense_ atmosphere in Magnus’s loft as the three of them stepped through the High Warlock’s portal and out into his home. Where Alec was coming down from the hectic high of the evening’s events, the others only drew up tighter, like a pair of dangerous, territorial beings eyeing each other, each waiting for the other to pounce. A pair of cobras or scorpions with venom dripping and ready to strike, unsure if they were going to attack or mate. Or both. Shaking his head, Alec did exactly what he’d promised himself after leaving the Institute in the hands of his siblings and Lydia: walking over to the living area and sinking down into the too-comfortable cushions of one of the couches, his head falling back and eyes closing for a moment as he took a breath.

Moments later he heard twin finger-snaps and by the time he looked up a truce seemed to have been called between Magnus and Stiles if the cocktail sitting next to Alec and the suddenly-clean and un-glamored form of Stiles was any sign.

No longer wearing leather pants torn from both having to cancel a rune and battle the mutated Forsaken but dressed in soft black drawstring pants, his boots had been swapped for slippers that for some reason had a bat outline in a shiny black material on top of the fleece footwear. The grunge, dirt, and grime of battle had been replaced with runed skin. Many of which as Stiles turned and accepted a tumbler of amber liquor from Magnus as the two moved to join him, Alec had never seen before even in his studies and shone with clear power even to Alec’s uneducated-in-magic (let alone Unseelie magic) eyes. His wings were still hidden and the glow of his eyes was traded for the amber-brown of a mundane, but it was the first time he’d truly been able to _appreciate_ that Stiles _was_ a shadowhunter hybrid without the massive signs of his _otherness_ taking all the attention.

To be fair: the wings were eye-catching whether in a single pair like his princely brothers sported or the three sets Stiles wore with all the effortless grace of an actual seraphim.

“Well,” Magnus snapped again trading out his “armor” in the form of his formal attire for a red silk tunic threaded with golden stripes that shimmered in the soft recessed lighting of his loft. Black silk lounge pants and slippers, muted makeup – foundation, highlighter, and a thin line of light gold eyeliner – finished his “at home” look along with a long golden chain set with citrine beads every six inches. “That was…_unexpected_.” He decided, then waved at himself and then Alec’s black tactical pants and button down in wordless offer.

He was surprised – but pleased – when Alexander cocked his head to the side, eyeing first Stiles’s low-slung black sweats that seemed to constantly threaten to _slip_ off of his hipbones and reveal more than just the cut muscles of his abdomen and Adonis belt – let alone all of that delicious muscle-on-muscle display that was his chest, arms, shoulders, and back that was clearly a side effect of carting around three massive sets of wings – then taking a slow drag of his eyes up and down Magnus himself, lingering a long moment on the deep v of golden flesh revealed by the low slash of his neckline.

Then he nodded, blinking a moment to adjust after Magnus snapped his fingers and Alec found himself kitted out in soft sweatpants, slippers, and a long-sleeved sweater that had his thumbs looped through holes sown into the cuffs, the sweater a gradient dye design that started black at the hem and faded to a silvery green at the collar, highlighting Alec’s frankly gorgeous hazel eyes.

“Tell me about it.” Stiles sighed, twisting his hand and refilling his lowball glass filled with warmed cognac as he slumped down into one of Magnus’s armchairs even as Magnus took his place on a loveseat across from Alec, the three of them making the points of a perfect triangle – much as they now were expected to balance each other as a ruling body. “I’ve done worse things to spike a Seelie plot, but few with more lasting consequences.”

“Might I ask…” Magnus cocked his head to the side and then taking a slow sip of his own burboun. “Why _did_ you maneuver events to occur as they did? It couldn’t _just_ been to prevent the Queen from getting her way?” He asked.

“Why do you think I did?” Stiles countered. “Until the time came for me to step forward as the hybrid representative, I barely spoke.”

“Perhaps,” Magnus arched a brow. “But Ragnor, Talia Hale, Diego del Rey, and apparently _Darius_ del Rey all have connections to you as does Raphael if only through his _novio_. Together with your brothers, you headed a rather impressive little political bloc in the meeting room, even against a few traditional lines. I can’t help but want to know _why_ it was so important to keep the Queen from attaining her goals. It had to be more than a matter of principle.”

“You’d be surprised.” Stiles smirked a little, eyes warming with what looked like approval over Magnus’s spotting all the little byplays between him and the others, especially since even his brothers weren’t fully aware of the depths of _all_ of Stiles’s connections to others in this realm. How could they be? Stiles was almost a hundred and fifty before he even knew of them or they him. There were entire _lifetimes_ he’d lived before the Unseelie came officially into his life. And lifetimes of connections and relationships they knew nothing of as a result. Not that it was limited to him either. While much of the lives of the Unseelie had been lived out on battlefields and missions, not all of them were. And in those non-battle moments, he was certain much had been done by and to his brothers and father that he would never learn no matter how long he lived or close they grew. “The level to which the Seelie resent the Clave could never compare to how they feel about their, when you break it down to basics, both jailors and parole officers. To carry out their mission, to uphold the ultimate duty that’d been given to him, my father followed the Damned when they fled the Heavenly Realms. His most loyal warriors followed him and helped bind the Damned to the demonic realms of the Void, Pandemonium, and so on. The Seelie on the other hand…”

“Were cast out.” Magnus repeated the origin of the Fair Folk. “Not wicked enough for hell nor virtuous enough for heaven. Cursed to tell the truth, bound to natural magics instead of the power of the heavenly realm, and as capricious in the present as they were in the past when they refused to choose a side in the battle between Samael and Michael, wasn’t it?”

“Mmm.” Stiles wobbled a hand in the air in a so-so gesture, relaxing further into the comfortable chair. Magnus was half-right. “That would be the leader of the Host. Angels don’t have kings but if they _did_, it’d be him. Fun fact about angels,” Stiles confided. “They don’t reproduce _physically_ but by combining their grace and powers of creation.”

“Okay…” Alec frowned, blinking. “How does that…?”

It was Magnus who got it first. Stiles was playing a game he was more than familiar with from years dealing with Seelie informants on the Courts. He was giving them breadcrumbs and allowing them to follow them to the conclusion instead of revealing information that he otherwise wouldn’t – or couldn’t maybe – share.

“The oldest tales,” Magnus turned to stare in shock at Stiles. His mere _existence_ being that much more a question mark. “Say that Michael and Lucifer ruled the Host together before the Fall and struggled over who would be the ultimate authority of their people. But if it was _Samael_ who rebelled, and Michael and Lucifer were co-rulers with Michael as an administrative head and Lucifer as the general then…” He shook his head, hardly able to believe what the was thinking. “How have you _not_ ended up smote down by Michael?”

Stiles shrugged. “Angelic soul-bonds, as you’re just starting to learn, are different than warlock bonds or marriage. My father Fell for his duty to the Host but according to Ailill his connection to his bonded is as strong as it’s ever been. After the demons they had to change the rules, allow angels to leave and return from the Heavenly Realms in order to continue to fight their enemy but the desires of angels, from what I’ve been told, are more spiritual and emotional than physical. To beings like Michael or Raziel, having sex is of no more importance than scratching an itch. While from what my brothers told me says that Michael isn’t _thrilled_ our father has a child not of their union, he’s not going to smite me either. Angelic lives are precious to their people, apparently. Even if I’m not the same as them, Michael still recognizes me as the thirteenth son of his bonded, especially since the first _twelve_ are all of their union and I’m hardly a threat to their inheritances no matter how you look at it.” He paused a moment then added: “Plus, it was hardly intentional. None of the Unseelie had ever sired a child on a mortal before. Until me they didn’t know it _could_ happen without the intention behind it to create a child by sharing grace.”

“I imagine now they’re a lot more careful with their partners.” Magnus said, tone bemused.

“They stay away from Raziel’s soldiers, yes.” Stiles agreed. “As well as Nephilim in general and warlocks just for good measure. The creation powers that are inherent to angels and therefore Unseelie are considerable and sterility,” he continued as Magnus frowned and made as if to protect that bit on grounds of warlocks – aside from Tessa Gray who was generally considered in a class all by herself from her Nephilim heritage until, well, _Stiles_ – were sterile. “Isn’t always the deterrent against reproduction with an angelic-blooded partner as it normally would be.”

“Just Unseelie?” Alec asked after processing _that_. Though he was confused about _why_ Stiles had gotten into all of this. It was interesting – don’t get him wrong – but it certainly wasn’t what he _thought_ they’d be discussing tonight. It was… It was _almost_ like Stiles was leading up to something but for the life of him he couldn’t figure out what it was. “Or Seelie too?”

“Just Unseelie among the non-Heavenly owners of angelic blood.” Stiles confirmed. “Cursed Fallen were altered towards the opposite power when they were cast out: destruction rather than creation, and Seelie were bound to nature which _has_ fertility components but that’s not the same thing as having _creation_ in their very veins.”

“That’s why you focus so heavily on wards, amulets, glamors – it’s all magic geared towards _creating_ something.” Magnus’s eyes lit up as a question that he’d been pondering since the Uprising was finally answered. “Even your offensive spellwork is geared towards creation: whips of fire, calling up gales or lightning strikes, rather than causing _direct_ harm.”

Stiles banished his empty glass and then did a flourishing little seated bow.

“It’s also why the Unseelie make such vicious warriors.” He added with a smirk. “We can’t turn your blood to acid in your veins despite having the power for it but we sure as _hell_ itself can spill every last drop of it with a sword.”

“Is that also why you have that?” Alec pointed to the rune encircling Stiles’s navel. “And that?” Then another on his hip, just peaking over the band of his sweatpants.

“Those?” Stiles’s voice turned a bit haunted mixed with dark nostalgia. Quite the difference from the pleasant tones he’d been using before. “No, though it plays a part in how they came about.”

“Why?” Magnus leaned forward, trying to get a better look at two out of what looked like dozens of runes. Stiles – or Salil Darklight he supposed since that _was_ his Shadowhunter name – was one of the most runed-up Nephilim or part-nephilim he’d ever seen, carrying them everywhere from what he could tell except his face, the palms of his hands, and he would guess the soles of his feet though that was just a guess since he’d never seen the feet in question. “Contraception I know,” he mused, when Stiles tugged down the band of his sweats a bit and leveraged his hips up to show the rune, a half-distant and half-torn look on his face. “But the other,” he pursed his lips, eyeing the one around Stiles’s navel. “I’ve never seen that before.”

Another unique _tell_ of Stiles’s was that he had more golden runes that most ever attempted to bear outside of the Silent Brothers or Iron Sisters.

Which made sense. Golden runes were linked to the soul. A soul with the maturity of centuries would surely be able to bear the weight of more runes than that of the short lifespans of the average shadowhunter.

Though of them all, Magnus thought the most striking of all Stiles’s runes was the deep crimson – nearly black – rune of Mourning and Remembrance that was vivid against the hollow of Stiles’s throat at the base of his neck/bottom of his throat.

“I’m not surprised.” Stiles said, sighing and standing to turn his back to the room and stare out over Magnus’s impressive view of Brooklyn and the City beyond. “As far as I know, I’m the only one who wears it. My father gave it to me, like most of the rest, when he saved my life.”

“What happened?” Alec asked softly, sharing a worried look with Magnus at the faint echoes of deep grief – but more, tangled up with rage and what they thought might be betrayal – they were getting from the bond.

“To understand _that_,” Stiles turned back, mind made up and face blank. “I’ll have to tell you what happened with Malcolm Fade…”

…

“I’ve spent almost all my life fulfilling my mother’s last wish.” Stiles had slipped into a monotone, slamming down all of his walls and control to get through this story.

He’d never told it – not all of it – to a single soul.

Those who knew pieces of it had _been_ there for them – Ragnor, when his mother had died, his father and brothers when Fade almost killed him, etc. – but not even they knew the entire story though not for lack of trying.

“She asked me to look after my sister and one day her children. And I did.” His mouth twitched, almost as if it didn’t know whether to smile or frown at the thought of generation after generation of children he’d watched be born, grow, and die. “I never figured out _why_ but they’ve never been very prolific and have had sons since my sister’s birth. Generations of nephews for me to keep an eye on and protect. I followed them, once Ragnor was certain my control would keep me from being a beacon of power to anyone who could sense it, through drought, famine, wildfires, and even into war.”

“How many times have you almost lost them?” So lost in his memory, Stiles wasn’t certain which of them asked the question but he thought it was Magnus due to the sense of _knowing_ the question had.

“More than I can count. More than I want to remember. Then in 1942 I followed my latest great-nephew to the Pacific Theater after Pearl Harbor was bombed. Two years later he was injured and sent home after the Battle of Guam and I “died”,” he held up finger quotes. “After pulling him out of a foxhole before he could bleed out. I beat him to Beacon Hills by a year between his recovery and transport.” He let out a scornful laugh. “Half the time I still don’t know if I made the right decision to portal home rather than stay and watch over him. Whether that would’ve made a difference or not. Because it seemed that two years was all it took for an obsessed warlock with a vendetta to set up shop on _my_ convergence point and start talking to things and making deals better left alone.”

“Malcolm,” Magnus sighed, shaking his head and snapping them all new drinks, Stiles picking up his and taking knocking it back like it was cheap rotgut instead of the finest cognac available, Alec watching him with this concerned furrow between his brows and an attentive look in his eyes that threatened to undo him entirely. “He never did know when to quit.”

“No,” Stiles barked a dark laugh. “No, that he didn’t. Of the two of them, I’d take Raiden any day.”

“The Void demon.” Alec remembered.

“A nogitsune, if you’re being precise.” Stiles corrected, holding up the pointer finger still wrapped with its brethren around the comforting warmth of the glass. “And when it comes to demons, it pays to be _precise_ as Fade learned the hard way. He offered Raiden a deal: a host, and free pass to cause as much chaos, pain, and suffering as it could glut himself on in exchange for bringing back Fade’s _love_.”

Both warlocks rolled their eyes. As if it was _that_ easy. Death was one of the few absolutes that any warlock with sense didn’t play with trying to reverse except under very specific circumstances and with stringent requirements if they didn’t want to end up locked in the Spiral Labyrinth when the Council caught up to them.

“Necromancy’s a filthy business, even for the most powerful and adept of warlocks.” Magnus explained in an aside to Alec as Stiles gathered his thoughts for the next part of the tale. “Bargaining with demons to accomplish it is even worse.”

“Why?”

“Because you have to call up a Greater Demon.” Magnus sighed. “And the ones that have the power to reverse _death_ aren’t the sort you try and haggle with. Off the top of my head,” Magnus gave it a quick thought. “Outside of the Princes of Hell…you’d need an Ancient or Primordial that predates the Fall. Not even Lilith could manage it. As a nogitsune, this Raiden would’ve been the latter.”

“He was.” Stiles nodded, setting down the glass and rubbing at his arms, fingers tapping in an exact pattern that he counted silently at the mention of the chaos demon. “Not the oldest of them at least or he would’ve laughed in Fade’s face but still _old_ if needing permission like any demon – via summoning or otherwise – to play with the mortal realms in a physical form. From what he told me, the original plan was for him to take me over once I showed up and realized that Fade was fucking with what at the time was _mine_.”

Magnus educated their younger bondmate in another aside, taking no chances on what _gaps_ there might be in sweet Alexander’s Clave-provided and therefore utterly biased education on warlocks or just anything _not_ Nephilim.

“You can challenge a warlock for their territory or bargain for it if the warlock is so inclined but just _squatting_ is bad form.” Magnus shot a mock-chiding brow at Stiles who was too lost in memory to respond to the backhanded reminder about Stiles’s own recent spate of bad manners. “And I would imagine that even seventy years ago and barely matured into his powers, Stiles would’ve swatted Fade like a fly. He was very powerful, likely sired by a Greater Demon, but not overly learned and could be rash like many young ones. Going up against the son of Lucifer…well.” Magnus shrugged. “Without mitigating circumstances I rather doubt Malcolm would’ve had a chance.” He thought a moment, doing quick math. “Especially since they would’ve been close in age and of the two, Stiles is the more seasoned warrior raised as he was by a legend like the missing Darklight princess.”

“Mother was fierce.” Stiles nodded at that. “And I was raised in a warrior culture. Fade was an obsessed scholar more interested in his own wants and desires than anything else. Knowledge on it's own is worthless without power to back it up and power is only as good as what you can _do_ with it. Making a deal with Raiden _after_ making one with my father was the beginning of the end for him.”

“He made a deal with _Lucifer_?” Magnus spluttered with a groan, burying his head in his hands. “It’s like he learned _nothing_ from his studies with us.”

“Us” in this case being Magnus, Ragnor, and their third friend Catarina Loss who was a warlock in possession of very powerful – and very niche – magic when it came to healing.

“Yup.” Stiles smirked. “Backfired on both of them really, though it ended in _Daddy Dearest_ learning about me so he still considers it a win. He’s the one that suggested the _Dark Artifices_ to Fade who then followed it’s traces to LA and _then_ followed the ley lines to the convergence in Beacon Hills and found it attended by the Hale Pack in my absence.”

“To regain what you have lost,” Magnus murmured the rhyme Fade had been given by the Unseelie King. Who was apparently Stiles’s father. Lucifer. “Find the Black book at any cost.”

“Mmm.” Stiles nodded. “But he couldn’t find it despite all his searching so he decided to try his hand with a demon next. According to Raiden the _idea_ was that since I was too powerful for Fade to duel and win once I returned and the power of the Nematon refused to answer to Fade’s call _at all_, even the trickle of power Fade managed when I was gone, as I was its Guardian at the time, Raiden would possess me. Two birds, one stone as far as Fade was concerned.” He smirked, still darkly amused at Fade’s miscalculation even with all he suffered as a result. “Bit off a _bit_ more than he could chew.”

“Yowch.” Magnus winced. “How long did it take for you to get the nogitsune out of you?”

“Six months.” Stiles answered shortly. “The six longest months of my _life_. All of it spent battling Raiden for control of my own body and Raiden trying to drive me mad one moment and then trying to seduce cooperation the next. When nothing worked towards any purpose beyond shortening my _already_ thin temper, Fade made a new plan banking on what he learned from Raiden about my power being weighed towards creation.”

“Born to create.” Alec murmured, eyes popping wide and staring at that rune – and specifically where it was positioned.

“Born to create.” Stiles echoed, a dark smile twisting his handsome looks into something far more sinister, not unlike Magnus imagined his father likely looked when he struck down his rebellious brother to save all creation from Samael’s pride and envy. “If they couldn’t use _me_, they would _use_ me to fulfill their bargain. And as Magnus noted: Fade _was_ powerful if rash. Raiden was intrigued by the idea, though I didn’t find that out until he was dead. A vessel born of _me_, filled with my power, and sired by him.” 

Stiles had to admit, Raiden hadn’t been wrong. Such a vessel would have been extremely powerful on its own even before it was taken over by an ancient entity of chaos.

He couldn’t call it a child, even in the theoretical.

Thank his father, that Fade and Raiden hadn’t managed to get _that_ far along in their plans.

Especially since Stiles still didn’t know what decision he would’ve made in the end.

Some things, in his opinion, were better _not_ to dwell on.

“But to manage it they needed my focus off of Raiden and Fade and on an outside problem.” He swallowed harshly. “So Fade summoned a group of shax demons and unleashed them on the concentration camp at Oak Creek. But he made a miscalculation.” Stiles grimaced. “Between my battle with the demons – and having to manage it with Raiden forcing whatever strands of my power he could get at reforming me to create the vessel they were after – and the creation power they were attempting to harness they drew attention. The exact kind of attention they didn’t want after already striking a deal with Lucifer.”

“He showed up.” Magnus lifted his brows in surprise. “That’s rare.”

“He gets bored.” Stiles admitted. “Most angels don’t pay attention to this realm because of the Nephilim acting as Raziel’s foot soldiers. And it was Draethan that showed up first, drawn by the creation power that was being used in a place where it _shouldn’t_ have been used. We were far enough off the Nematon that it wasn’t buffering the battle enough to prevent leakage and when he saw it was an Unseelie hybrid, let alone what I _looked_ like, he summoned our father after dealing with the rest of the demons and freeing me up to finally expel Raiden with an assist.” He tapped the golden rune behind his ear: a reversed five, the kanji symbol for _self_. “Giving me my very first rune. I took out Fade before he could scurry off – I can’t boil blood but I can certainly light someone _on fire_ – but I was already dying.” He shivered in a full-body recollection of the pain of the change forced on him by Fade’s half-assed spellwork and Raiden’s cackhanded handling of Stiles’s power. “What they tried to do with brute force was tearing me apart from the inside out. My body as it was couldn’t support the change and tried to reject it.” He shook his head, closing his eyes. “I met my father for the first time in a puddle of my own blood as I started hemorrhaging, a mess of demon ash-and-ichor, with the screaming remains of Malcolm Fade a dozen feet away while Draethan panicked around me. He gave me a choice: let him stabilize the changes and certainly live if altered, have him reverse the changes and possibly die from shock, or stay as is and certainly die.”

“You chose to live.” Alec murmured in shock, world rocked at the sheer _impossibily_ that was Stiles. “They, what, gave you a womb?”

“Basically.” Stiles winced. “Gave my physical self the ability to carry out a possibility of my spiritual self. Well, when my father was done. They just tried to force it all through power, as a Fallen with a dozen offspring, Lucifer actually knew how that power was supposed to work and was able to tweak it for my body but it needed an anchor,” he tapped the creation rune on his stomach. “Hence…”

“You can bear children.” Magnus said flatly. “Not only are you _not_ sterile as a warlock but you can carry children as a _male_ warlock.”

“Not on purpose.” Stiles muttered, crossing his arms over his chest. “Aetheryn thinks that it’s the angelic creation powers that Nephilim carry in much smaller amounts that balances the destructive power of demons that lets Tessa have kids and why most warlocks can’t. If a warlock takes enough creation power from their non-mortal parent they might be able to have kids. Or if the creation power of their partner is strong enough to over come the destruction aspect.” He shrugged. “It’s all very theoretical but something you both need to be aware of as my bondmates even if nothing ever comes of my ability beyond my having to keep the anchor for it until/unless I die.” He turned to look at the shocked form of Alec in particular. “Which means in particular that if any member of the Clave ever gets the _bright_ idea to try and de-rune me I will kill every last one of them before I let them kill me in turn.”

“Fair enough.” Magnus said as the reason behind the tale became clear as far more than just explaining an odd rune to Alexander. It wasn’t dissimilar to a former lover having a peanut allergy, though with a lot more required explanatory backstory and a dash – or gallon – of angst to go with it. “Is that also why your runes are all active?” 

He hazarded a guess as none of them have the dulled or dimmed effect of an inert rune, let alone the scarring of one that was completely faded that even active front-line shadowhunters can have depending on the purpose and longevity of the rune or the power of the Nephilim who used and/or applied it. From what his former friends told him, especially Jem who’d been more than a bit of a rebel, there was more variation in effects and longevity than any member of the Clave Council would want a downworlder to know.

Nephilim could teach even warlocks or djinn a thing or two about keeping secrets, from their own kind as much as any outsiders.

Stiles nodded. “All of my runes were applied by either my father or brothers, they’re more potent than most and only a few require me to activate them for use. There was more than a bit of trial and error involved over the years because of my currently singular nature.” He kept looking at Alec who met his gaze unwaveringly, nodding in compliance to both Stiles’s warning regarding de-runing and his request as far as new runes. “So: don’t apply any new ones to me, Alec, even if I’m unconscious. I’m hardier than I look. If necessary,” he pointed to the Iratze on the left side of his neck in the same spot and similar size to Alec’s own deflect rune. “You can activate that, my nature will do the rest or a warlock or Unseelie healer.”

“How would we acquire you the latter?” Magnus arched a curious brow, more than willing to move on and be boggled over the impossibility that was Stiles/Salil Darklight later. “Somehow I doubt your brothers get cell reception in the Winter Court.”

“Draethan spends more time here than most, keeping an eye on things _unofficially_ since officially that’s my job as a resident of this realm or Ailill’s as the ambassador but,” he shrugged. “He was stationed here as a watcher for long enough that he has a soft-spot for some of the people. I’ll give you an amulet that’ll work to send a message to him – no matter where he is – and he’ll handle it from there but that’s for literal life-or-death. Anything else and an Unseelie is overkill since there’s almost nothing in this realm capable of killing me. I’ll heal.”

“Handy.” Magnus decided. “Any other caveats we should know about our new bondmate?”

Stiles almost allowed a rueful – or heartbroken, it was hard to say – look cross his face at Magnus’s wording before he was able to lock it down and retreat behind his stoic hard-as-stone mask.

“Just that I’ll try and impose on you both as little as possible.” He told them, dropping his glamor over his wings and allowing them to stretch. “You chose to save others,” he nodded at Alec. “Magnus chose you.” He _did_ smile then, though it was one of the most joyless things Magnus had ever seen in his long life. “I went into this expecting to have to bind myself to Meliorn or one of Etaín’s children, so thank you, Magnus.” He told him sincerely. “For saving me from that. I’ll not repay that by becoming something you have to _suffer_ to have each other.” He reiterated what he’d already told his brothers.

Before they could say anything to _that_, though neither of them had any idea _what_, he left in that odd fashion of the Unseelie to who-knew-where, leaving Magnus and Alec with more information than they knew what to do with and yet not nearly enough at the same time.

“Well,” Magnus turned towards his…_Alexander_. “It’s been quite the day and I would imagine returning to the Institute alone would hardly be conducive to thinking over all that’s happened. Including our rather dramatic bondmate.” And that was coming from _Magnus Bane_. Though having had dealings with Ailill over the last weeks, he didn’t have to think hard to discover where the tendency came from. He rose, banishing the empty glasses from their drinks. “No pressure but you would be welcome in _any_ of the beds – guest or otherwise – I have to offer. To sleep.” He stipulated when Alec blushed and looked up at Magnus. “Since even _I _have to admit that the revelations of the day have left me rather desirous of nothing but rest.”

“I’d like to stay.” Alec admitted a heartbeat later, rising and taking Magnus’s hand. “With you, to sleep. Anything – everything – else can wait until tomorrow.”

“Alexander.” Magnus smiled softly at the shadowhunter as he felt the _warmth_ coming from Alec, peeking out from their bond almost like a shy glance from under lashes. “You never fail to surprise me.”

“I hope that’s a good thing.”

“It is.” Magnus reassured him, sending Alexander warmth in turn as he softly squeezed his hand. “I promise.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For more information about my stories (fanfic and original) find me on Facebook at: https://www.facebook.com/sif.shadowheart
> 
> Or follow me on Twitter: https://twitter.com/AbramsSif


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter and the beginning of the next should be it for the tidal-wave of Stiles-angst in this fic. There might be dashes of insecurity on various parts after this but no more deep-seated angst issues.
> 
> There is a content warning on this chapter for mention of a past rape that hasn't been tagged due to it being a background element not a recurring issue. If this is triggering, then readers will want to skip over Ragnor and Stiles's discussion of what happened to Stiles's family in the past.

** Hunter’s Bane **

**Chapter Fifteen: Punishment**

Stiles wished he could say he was surprised to leave Magnus’s loft – that pendent to get through his wards made Stiles’s life a _lot_ easier, not that it mattered much when he traveled the Unseelie way instead of portaling – and arrive in his own to find himself trapped in what looked on first glance to be the multispecies equivalent of an _Intervention_.

He also didn’t know when Gwrtheyrn had arrived but there was something just _wrong_ about the Crown Prince of the Unseelie perching on his kitchen island to keep his ink-black wings that seemed to drink the light, the exact opposite of their father’s infamous wings that earned him the appellation “Lightbringer” from dragging on the floor.

“Shit.” He said, eyes tracking over Gwrtheryn to the rest of their brothers lined up by age as they tended to do out of habit from the ranks of the Host as anything else, then to Darius and Derek the brothers sharing a couch with Raphael waiting on Derek’s left the pair holding hands, then at last to Ragnor. “Where’s the dads?” He joked, scruffing one hand through his hair, already feeling raw from the story he shared with his new bondmates and _not_ up to another round of trying to talk him out of what he’d already done. Magnus and Alec didn’t know it, but their bond _could_ still be altered. It took anywhere from a week or two to fully settle naturally without physical consummation. And he suddenly had the feeling that his brothers and loved ones were going to be trying to change his mind for all of that time. “Busy?”

By “the dads” Stiles meant Noah, who’d made the transition to feeling parental over Stiles faster than all of his ancestors all the way back to Stiles’s actual parent, and of course Lucifer who would be the most effective at changing his mind but was conversely the least likely to make the attempt as he was a firm believer in the “learning from the consequences” school of parenting.

That to the Unseelie he was _definitely_ still young enough to fuss over and coddle and actively parent was a head trip considering that in the culture he’d been raised in, he’d become a man at his first blooding in both hunt and battle.

Which for Stiles had been fourteen or fifteenish. Hard to say. A pack of wolf shifters living mostly off the land and having little to do with outsiders weren’t exactly the best time keepers back in the early part of the nineteenth century.

“If I thought you’d listen to them any better than you will _us_, I would.” Gwrtheryn told him drily even as he jumped down and wrapped Stiles up in first his inky wings then his massive and strong arms. “However, I thought it better for you to tell your Noah that you’ve agreed to an eternity of political civil façade of a marriage – because we all know that Etaín is still going to insist on a marriage along with the likes of St. Cloud or whoever else gets their kicks from humiliating the Clave – on your own terms.”

Well. Stiles blinked. They certainly hadn’t wasted time filling in big brother.

And the ruler of the Fae was _Not Amused™._

“How long are you going to punish yourself for Fawn’s death, Salil?” Ragnor asked softly, with an understanding – and knowledge – that no one else possessed. They hadn’t been there. They didn’t know.

All any of the others in the room had ever known was Salil like _this_: damaged, hurting, raging inside.

Not like he was before.

When his family was more than a group of people so loosely related to him that they might as well be strangers or a group of Unseelie royalty who’d never be able to understand what it was to be raised constantly caught between worlds no matter where he turned.

To be white in a tribe of native people.

To share the skin color of the invaders who slaughtered their kin.

To be immortal but raised among mortals.

To have magic among shifters.

To be kind and caring, a caretaker from his first years but raised to be a merciless warrior.

No, they didn’t know Salil Darklight.

All they knew was what the world had turned him into that went by a series of names he picked up and discarded with ease.

For a time Stiles the funny, protective, friend and son and brother.

For a time Saar the wicked, dangerous warlock who would destroy anyone for a price.

For a time Sage the warrior who followed his sister’s descendants into war after war and battle after battle.

For a time Slade the hunter, vengeance personified who walked the path of revenge until every last invader who shed the blood of those he loved was dead.

And at the root of it all Salil, called Light Raven by his adopted people, who’d loved so deeply that the loss of both his mother and his bride to savagery had broken him into a being that lived only for his promise to his mother to protect his sister and her children and his revenge. What Salil had done to those range riders who destroyed the mundane camp that his bride called home, taking from him his bride and his mother in one vicious swoop as they visited his bride’s family, still haunted Ragnor’s dreams some nights. It was also why it’d taken a decade for more settlers to try their hand at the fertile lands surrounding Beacon Hills, and only they had dared it because half of them were a pack of wolf shifters from England and the other half were druids who had no fear of vengeful spirits dwelling in the trees.

A hiss of warning and a flash and flare of his wings and eyes as he whipped around on Ragnor was all the warning Darius, Derek, and Raphael needed to get the hell out of dodge in case he lost his temper.

Unlike Ragnor or the Unseelie, a blast from Stiles’s volatile powers wasn’t the sort of thing any of them could walk away from.

Though Derek at least felt some remorse for abandoning his friend to the confrontation, he also didn’t want to pile more guilt up on Stiles’s shoulders if he accidentally injured him because Ragnor went poking at what was apparently a very sensitive and unhealed emotional wound.

His brothers were content to watch – for the moment – as the warlocks aired out information that they’d never known about their youngest brother for all that they’d tried to learn of him completely since the moment they became aware of his existence.

“It _wasn’t your fault_, Salil.” Ragnor repeated something he’d been telling the boy since it’d happened. “Your mother was a fierce warrior but up against mundane guns even she was ill-armed. There was _nothing_ you could have done to prevent what happened, Salil. It’s time you stopped punishing yourself for an inevitability.”

“An inevitability?” Stiles scoffed, tossing his hand up in the air as he held onto his temper with the very tips of his fingernails. “My _mother_ and my _fifteen-year-old_ _wife_ were beaten, raped, and left to _die_!” He shouted, licked of golden flame coating his outspread wings and up from his clenched fists to wreath his arms. “There was nothing _inevitable_ about it! I should have…”

“Should have _what_?” Ragnor pressed, arching an expectant brow. “What, Salil? _What_ precisely should you have done? You’re not all knowing for all that you like to pretend otherwise. You say that Fawn was fifteen and forget that _so were you_. A fifteen-year-old warlock, barely even beginning to mature into his powers. There were no portals then, Salil. No way for you to have warded a mobile village like that of Fawn’s people. By the time you _knew_ something was wrong the deed had already _been done_. Yes. They died. Mortals _do_. But do you _truly_ believe in your heart of hearts that either Kallisto _or_ Fawn would want you to live this way? Unable to even say the name of your _wife_ because the wound merely festers but never heals?” He shook his head, reaching out and grabbing his protégé by the biceps, shaking him lightly and ignoring the warning faint burn of Salil’s power. “Enough, Salil. It’s _always_ been enough. You need to _let go_ and stop living in the past to prevent yourself from looking towards the future. Always protecting others but never yourself. Now, this?” Ragnor pursed his lips. “A political marriage to a pair of hearts that see only each other for all that their libidos might notice you? I won’t let you do this to yourself, Salil. As it is your mother will rake me up one side and down the other if I die for letting you wallow for two centuries. I don’t fancy what she and Fawn will do if I let you go through with this lunacy.”

Salil sagged in his hold, slumping forward and resting his forehead on Ragnor’s shoulder.

“Is there truly no hope for the union?” Gwrtheryn asked, filing away what was a rather _massive_ piece of missing information about why his youngest brother was the way he was.

“Their souls were surprisingly complementary.” Ailill mused, looking off into the middle distance. “But Fell is right in that there is a greater draw between the others than to our brother.” He shrugged. “As long as it’s done before the bond settles, it can still be broken and we can leave this forsaken dimension to its own affairs.”

_We_ in this instance including Salil as a certainty.

“Perhaps, perhaps not.” Aetheryn waved his hand and summoned a seeing pool, filling it with pure water with a flick of his wrist. “Shall we see if it is truly as hopeless as our green friend seems to believe?”

…

The scent of sandalwood tingled at Alec’s nose and the light brush of the rising sun warmed his closed eyes the next morning.

By mutual agreement, he and Magnus had shed their shirts but kept bottoms on as they slid between Magnus’s golden silk sheets. It was a sensation that he’d never known before. Silk on skin. It made him think of sensations that weren’t nearly so innocent and were downright sinful.

Especially when his eyes fluttered open where he rested on his side and saw Magnus watching him with a soft expression on his face and ravenous eyes.

“Hey,” he said in a voice raspy from sleep.

Magnus turned a bit more fully onto his side to face the most beautiful thing he’d ever woken to: the sight of Alexander Lightwood vulnerable and tousled from sleep in his bed, to savor it and really let it sink into his memory.

“Hey.” Magnus said back, smiling softly that the still sleep-dazed man. “Good morning.”

Alec let his eyes close with a slight groan of protest. “Can’t be morning.” He grumbled before cracking his eyes open a bit to glare good-naturedly at his…his _bonded_. The memories of the previous day rushed back in, reminding him of everything that waited for them on the other side of Magnus’s door. Not the least of which was the rather _gaping_ void between them that had a distinctly _Stiles_ shape.

“Unfortunately it can, my dear Alexander.” Magnus continued to smile even as he wanted to sigh as the vulnerability was chased away in the rush of memories that he could almost _see_ playing out in Alexander’s head. “Time waits for no one, not even the High Warlock of Brooklyn or the Head of the New York Institute, darling.”

“It should,” Alec _wasn’t_ pouting over having to leave the warm bed with his warm _Magnus_ and deal with all of the shit that was waiting on them. “We should make it a rule. We can do that now.”

“Ah,” Magnus sighed, reaching out tentatively and playing with Alec’s softly-curled fingers on the bed between them. “But that would have to also be approved by our third and I doubt an Unseelie Prince would agree to that sort of abuse of authority, hybrid or not.”

“I dunno.” Alec nibbled at his lower lip. “Stiles kinda strikes me as the guy who learns the rules so he knows exactly the best ways to break them. He might go for it.”

Alec let that rest between them, the opening salvo regarding their new _situation_, then a question poked at him and he had to ask:

“Why did you do it?”

“Hmm?” Magnus hummed in question, turning and wrapping his arms around his pillow but still keeping his head turned towards Alexander. “Do what?”

“Join this,” Alec waved his now-free hand between them and then up into the air as if to illustrate their missing piece. “Join us. We all know what happened with me. And I’m pretty sure Stiles agreed to it and manipulated things to keep the status quo from ever swinging in favor of the Seelie or the Clave depending on which of the other possibilities were chosen. But…”

“Why would I sign up for an alliance in the form of a marriage?” Magnus provided, already fashioning and discarding a dozen excuses to cover the truth before deciding to be honest. “There isn’t a single clean-cut reason, darling.” He sighed. “I’m old enough of a warlock that I’ve seen the ebbs and flows of power when it comes to the Clave and the Downworld. This is the first time in all those years that short of summoning a horde of demons that would destroy the rest of the earth as surely as they would the Clave that the power has truly swung in our favor. Much of which is due to the presence of Stiles and his brothers and the wordless threat they provide by their mere existence. There’s bits of Stiles’s motivations: who else _could_ I trust with such power as the Triumvirate is suppose to attain but myself? I have more power in my pinky finger than most members of the Downworld or the Clave would ever possess in all their lives. I’ve refused power offered to me before time and time again. It was only Aldous being a stubborn old bastard that convinced me to become a High Warlock. And then,” he reached out and brushed the fingers of his hand down one lovely cheekbone on Alexander’s face. “I wasn’t lying before. You _have_ unlocked something in me, Alexander. I wasn’t going to let the likes of Etaín or a jumped-up druid to keep me from you if I could prevent it.” Magnus tilted his head a bit in thought. “So I suppose we can call it one part practicality, one part political savvy, and one part romance that swayed my decision in favor of throwing my hat into the ring and even then,” he tangled their fingers back together. “I had no guarantee that Stiles would choose _me_ over Meliorn or one of the other offers. The shifters at least were surprised at his choice and considering the links between the Hales and del Reys and Stiles they would have been one of the few to know something of him.”

“I wasn’t surprised he chose you.” Alec admitted, squeezing Magnus’s hand gently. “Stiles used favors owed to him by me to ensure I used his wards over the Summit. He held the Scroll in safety while it approached. He talks a good game, but at heart he’s a protector. It’s like he can’t help himself. He would’ve made the choice that he thought would protect those he cared about as well as the most people. And who can do that better within the Triumvirate than Magnus Bane, High Warlock of Brooklyn?”

“He’s a stubborn ass with a martyr complex a mile wide.” Magnus snorted. “What _are_ we going to do about him?”

Before Alec could answer, the strange fluttering that heralded the arrival or departure of an Unseelie drew their attention, the pair sitting up in shock at the sight of it _not_ being the Unseelie they expected.

“Well,” the stranger’s voice was sharp enough to cut steel. “Aren’t I just _delighted_ to see this cozy little scene while my brother,” Magnus and Alec shared a joint wide-eyed moment of utter _oh fuck_. “Tears himself to pieces over you two.”

A derisive glance that threatened to slice them into piece took in their partially dressed forms and the rumpled sheets.

Spinning on his heel, ass-length fall of ebony hair snapping with the movement, the Crown Prince of the Unseelie – and one of the finest warriors ever fashioned by the Host – strode for the door leading out into the loft.

“Get out here.” Gwrtheryn snarled the command when the pair remained stunned in place. “_Now_.”

…

Moments later, a fully cleaned-and-dressed (via magic, of course) Magnus and Alec found themselves staring at a gloriously handsome – and brooding – Crown Prince in Magnus’s living room.

Magnus had to admit for all he adored Alexander’s looks and thought Stiles one of the most striking men he’d ever seen, Gwrtheryn was perhaps the most aesthetically beautiful being he’d ever seen – and with a Fallen as a father, he _had_ seen plenty in addition to the Crown Prince’s own brothers.

Gwrtheryn with the refined edges of his bone structure, the silken fall of hair, the lithe figure that looked like it could bend in half as easily as it could _break_ a man in half was a beauty that was very much not of this world – and that without his legendary wings on display.

While with his brothers there was a bit of common appearance, in Gwrtheryn it became readily apparent that they all took after one parent as with Stiles or mingled together the looks of both leaving Gwrtheryn to be an example of what Michael must look like. He shared not a wisp of looks with Stiles. The two could be strangers for all that they shared appearances. And yet from the cold glance he cast their way, it couldn’t be clearer that if the others fussed over Stiles and preened his wings and patted his head, it was Gwrtheryn who would cheerfully slaughter anyone who dared to harm them.

Little did Stiles know it, but killing Fade before his oldest – available, if Magnus had his family tree right from when his own father explained some of the hierarchy of the Host and the Unseelie, there should be one or two older than Gwrtheryn who remained with the Host – of his brothers got his hands on him for what Fade had put Stiles through had been a _mercy_.

“I always forget how desperately _young_ my brother is.” Gwrtheryn spoke as he felt them enter the room, not deigning to turn from studying the waking Brooklyn skyline. “That he wasn’t raised as an immortal despite his mentor’s best attempts to teach him when he could but among mortals. Were my father – or any of us – aware of his birth, we would have taken him to the Winter Court and raised him properly, sheltered him among our own so he learned our ways instead of clinging to his mortal sensibilities.” He finally turned and eyed the pair that his foolish, young brother had chosen to bond himself to.

He would never admit it – to them at least – but Salil could have chosen far worse.

It was only saving his brother from his own obstinate blindness regarding both himself and his bondmates that was the key before he foolishly tossed himself onto a martyr’s pyre of his own making.

Of all the things he’d inherited from their father, Gwrtheryn wished that that thick streak of dramatic gestures wasn’t one of them.

“My stubborn little brother is convinced that his regard towards you is not returned.” He continued. “My other brothers believe otherwise but our attempts to make him _see_ have, unfortunately, backfired. He is convinced that the pair of you are _meant_ and that he is something you must _suffer_ in order to have one another…ah.” He arched a brow at their shared looks of exasperation. “I see you are not as oblivious towards Salil’s delusions as I had thought.”

“How someone who looks like your brother managed to convince himself that he’s some sort of hideous burden on us, I have _no_ clue.” Magnus drawled, rolling his eyes extravagantly and summoning a breakfast spread complete with carafes of rich coffee, steaming pastries, and fresh fruit. “Honestly, of all the things I would have charged Stiles,” he corrected himself at Gwrtheryn’s scowl. “_Salil_ with being insecure would not have been one of them.” 

He handed Alexander a perfectly made cup of coffee and a selection of fruit and beignets as he ushered his shadowhunter into a seat at his coffee table. He held out a cup to the Unseelie Crown Prince in wordless offer, the elegant being smirking a little – and _oh_ he’d seen that expression before, there was that resemblance he’d been struggling to find – before gesturing with two fingers and then was suddenly holding the cup in Magnus’s hand filled with a steaming beverage. Huh. Unseelie powers were closer to warlock powers than he’d ever considered before. Noted. Or perhaps it was that demonic powers were closer to that of both the Unseelie and angels than anyone would ever admit.

“From what we understand of his past,” Gwrtheryn told them, choosing his words with exquisite care. “His heart was dealt dual shattering blows when he was young even for a mortal. Little more than an infant to an Unseelie. As a result we believe he’s locked his heart away to protect himself from ever feeling another wound like it. The problem with that became that the wound was never given a chance to heal, it has only festered. Other than brief affairs of the body, my brother hasn’t cared for another outside of his family in over two hundred years.”

“Two-” Alec stuttered, eyes wide. “That’s…”

“As I said, he was quite young.” Gwrtheryn repeated. “A teenager I believe is the term mortals use in this realm.”

“Such recovery from emotional blows can’t be forced.” Magnus said all too knowing and quietly mourning for the tragedies that seemed to plague all of his kind. Even – or perhaps especially – the most powerful of them. “And if I know my dear cabbage at all, Ragnor would not have allowed his protégé to close himself off from the world if he could help it.”

His old friend had certainly had enough to say about Magnus’s century of living with a closed-off heart.

“No, they can’t.” Gwrtheryn. “But I believe your Nephilim have a saying: that they love only once. A better phrasing would perhaps be that when those of angelic blood love, we love with our _all_. We know no other way, weren’t created for prudence but for action. If you can _show_ him that he is wrong, that he is wanted, is cared for, then it is my hope that the problem will resolve itself. After all,” Gwrtheryn smirked openly. “He’s chosen to bond with you where if he were _truly_ resolved to remain untouched a wiser course would have been to demand a different shadowhunter and choose Meliorn whose very nature would prevent Salil from loving him. He’s already taken with the two of you despite all that he’s doing to convince himself and everyone else that he remains untouched. Though it won’t be easy.” He warned. “Not with the knowledge he currently possesses.”

“What do you mean?” Alec asked when a glance at Magnus said that he was too deep in thought to really engage.

“My people have the ability to watch over the dimensions and realms of the mortal worlds.” Gwrtheryn told them, though it visibly pained him to trust them with such knowledge. “Even _we_ cannot be everywhere in every moment. My brother Aetheryn retains the most hope for the union and as a result suggested that we might take a look and see if there were a world where the three of you share a love.”

“Just Prince Aetheryn?” Magnus asked, looking up from where he’d been turning over his interactions with Stiles over with a fine-toothed comb, trying to see what Gwrtheryn did with such ease.

“Ailill,” Gwrtheryn sighed at his brother’s stubbornness. “Wishes for nothing more than to take Salil away to the Winter Court. He and Draethan share a distaste for shadowhunters that was _not_ alleviated by Kallisto’s bearing our father a son. Draethan has been surprisingly silent on the subject for being the one of us with the closest relationship with our youngest brother. Aetheryn merely wishes for Salil to be _happy_ in the choices he is determined to make. It is the warlock Fell that is the most convinced that Salil is punishing himself with this course of action.”

“And you, Lord of the Fae?” Magnus rephrased his question. “After your look into mirror worlds and what you’ve been told of us and seen for yourself. What do you believe?”

“I believe,” Gwrtheryn spoke slowly, tasting each word before it tripped off his tongue. “That the pair of you are both my brother’s greatest hope for a glorious future and the greatest risk to his happiness all divided by a line so thin that the slightest misstep could send him shattering and into the care of the Court for centuries before he recovers.” He blinked, a thought occurring to him. “Perhaps I should show you what I mean…”

…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For more information about my stories (fanfic and original) find me on Facebook at: https://www.facebook.com/sif.shadowheart
> 
> Or follow me on Twitter: https://twitter.com/AbramsSif


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As some of you know if you follow my Twitter or Facebook, I have a chronic pain condition. Today has been a very bad day for me in my right arm following up a couple of bad pain days in both arms. That said, today's update is more of a mini-chapter than a full one as a result but in my opinion it doesn't disappoint on content.
> 
> I hope you enjoy it regardless, and (my body willing) I hope to have a chapter more in line with the standard for this fic up tomorrow.
> 
> ~Sif

** Hunter’s Bane **

**Chapter Sixteen: Static Points**

With a wave of one lithe arm, the room around them faded away, Alec and Magnus jumping to their feet even though they could still feel the furniture under them, and a different location formed around them in an instant.

Looking around, they saw Gwrtheryn standing around a silver bowl filled with crystal clear water with his brothers – all four of them.

Stiles was there, looking like a broken shell of the strong fierce warlock warrior, nestled between the blond – Aetheryn – and the twin who shared Aetheryn’s face but was as dark as the Sword of the Fae was light, with Ragnor standing directly behind him and watching the water over Stiles’s shoulder.

“When are we?” Magnus asked, looking around and from the pictures hanging on the walls of Stiles, his wolf friend the Hale boy, and Hale’s extended family, that the _where_ was the residence the hybrid shared with his friend.

“While we were speaking.” Gwrtheryn turned and looked at the pair over his shoulder with taunting look in his eyes. “My brother is not the only one with the power to nudge things a bit out of line. While he does not possess the exact gifts of a full Unseelie, that _was_ quite clever a usage of what he does possess. I took a risk, based on what I saw in the worlds we searched of the two of you. We are currently speaking in your home at the same time as _this_,” he gestured to the scene around them. “When time and reality realign, you will have your knowledge of what is going through my stubborn brother’s mind. And have an opportunity, however fleeting, to change it. If I were you,” Gwrtheryn warned before turning back to the activity surrounding the seeing glass. “I would not waste it.”

…

Neither of them could _see_ what the others were viewing in the scrying pool or whatever the Unseelie called it but what they _could_ see without trying was the effect it was having on Stiles.

His glowing eyes dimmed, the stoic set of his face and shoulders crumbled, then he physically ripped himself away from the scry, his brothers, and his mentor, wings flaring wide into place and then wrapping around himself in an attempt – at a guess – to instinctively self-comfort.

“It’s no use.” His voice, normally so filled with life, was hollow. “I don’t want to look anymore. We’ll finish Valentine and then…” He sighed, glancing over at Ailill. “I suppose it would be best if I came to the Courts. The distance should muffle the bone to the point that they won’t be bothered with me and…”

“And what?” Draethan snapped. “Be lonely forever? With a bond in place your options are to try and make it work with whom you’ve chosen _or_ to break it before it sets: that’s it. You’ll be alone and lonely forever and _they_ will be missing a piece of themselves and their bond. If you won’t try, you need to break it little brother. For them if not for yourself.”

Magnus and Alec exchanged a startled glance. The way Stiles had explained the bond to them, it’d sounded like it would simply remain weakened unless strengthened. Not that there was an option to break it – one that Stiles apparently was refusing to consider almost as fiercely was he was resisting allowing closeness to grow between himself and them out of some fear of intruding.

Because, sure.

Being bonded to a _fucking beautiful and powerful_ hybrid like _Stiles_ was such a fucking hardship.

If they were a straight couple then maybe – _maybe_ – Stiles might have a leg to stand on with that argument but they _weren’t_.

Aetheryn rolled his eyes, throwing up his hands in exasperation.

“Stubborn ass is determined to see all the evidence that backs up his own opinion and ignore everything that runs contrary to it.”

“Remind you of anyone else we know?” Draethan snorted, shooting a _knowing_ look at their eldest brother who resolutely ignored them.

This wasn’t about him and _his_ love life, thank you very much, but about trying to save their youngest brother from a hellish trap of his own making. Besides. If they haven’t resolved _his_ issues since the Fall, he doubted they’d manage it in one morning.

“They’re a fucking _static point_, Draethan!” Stiles shouted, slashing one arm through the air and slamming the scrying dish with a blast of power that had Gwrtheyrn tossing up a hand and blocking it and the water before it could hit him. “Soulmates! Together in _every _dimension and _every _world! Where in _that_ is there room for me?”

Magnus and Alec shared a shocked look at that revelation before instantaneously setting it aside.

They’d deal with _that_ later. Or never. These were options.

“But they’re not strictly _monogamous_ in every dimension and every world, now are they?” Aetheryn countered with a knowing grin. “That dragon prince in particular seemed rather delicious…”

Draethan reached out and whacked his elder twin on the back of his head at a _look_ from Gwrtheryn, who needed in approval when the blond Unseelie pouted and rubbed the back of his head.

“Perv on beings in other dimensions later.” Draethan hissed under his breath. “We’re trying to talk Salil off a ledge now, _remember_?”

“That’d be more convincing if _you_ hadn’t been ogling the cocky blond one in that dimension where…” Before Aetheryn could finished letting in their shielded _guests_ in on just what it was Jace had been up to and with whom in the dimension in question, Gwrtheryn gagged him with a flick of his hand.

“Even if they _might have_ wanted me.” Stiles was set and ready with his next argument. “Why would they now? After what my playing with Etaín led to? For all we know, Alec might be immortal now because of using the binding ceremony, why…”

Alec let out a strangled sound at that, unable to keep silent any longer as his eyes popped wide, the others whirling and staring at the “intruders” on the bit of voyeuristic Unseelie brotherly bonding – plus a warlock, Ragnor studiously ignoring Magnus’s attempt to catch his eye as Gwrtheryn let the glamor over them disintegrate.

_Immortal?_

_The binding might have made him _immortal?

He…honestly he had no idea what to do with that.

“I think,” Magnus spoke when it seemed that his bondmates weren’t inclined to do more than stare at each other like a pair of deer spooked by headlights. “That perhaps it would be best if we finished this rather _riveting_ conversation with Stiles. Alone. Though we _do_ appreciate the attempt to intercede on our behalves, in the end what is done about our bond is _our_ choice.”

“As you wish.” Gwrtheryn nodded regally, giving his younger brothers – all of them – a commanding look then moving over to his brother’s mentor and fluttering away, the others a mere wing-beat behind him.

…

Stiles turned his back on them, straightening and cleaning the living area of the loft with a vicious slash of his hand to burn off some of his agitation before his magic lashed out.

“Going to tell me I’m an idiot too?” He asked bitterly.

“I think,” Magnus said slowly after trading a glance with Alec, both of them moving on soft feet to flank their obstinate Unseelie hybrid. “That you’ve had enough of _words_ over the last day to fill a lifetime.” He watched Alec’s progress out of the corner of his eye, having to shove down a shiver at the distinctly _predatory_ cast that had come over his sweet angel as they moved in unison to accomplish what might be one of the most pivotal traps of either of their lives.

It wasn’t everyday that one got the drop on an Unseelie prince after all – and official status or not, mortal blood or not, it had been made _very_ clear that that was exactly what Stiles was to anyone whose opinion actually mattered in the matter.

“If you want,” Magnus continued securing Stiles’s attention as the Unseelie pretended to ignore them. “I _could_ tell you how intoxicating you were when you used your power against Valak. I could write poems to the golden glow of your eyes, literal _odes_ to your wings, a dirty limerick or ten on your muscled chest, distracting arms, and ass that had me thinking of nothing but filth. But you don’t want words.” Magnus crept close, almost pressing up against the back that was free of wings – or more properly whose wings couldn’t be seen or felt thanks to Stiles’s magic. “You want to _feel_. You want Alexander to lose his breath when you walk into a room.”

Magnus was tall enough to meet Alec’s eyes over Stiles’s shoulder, Stiles’s eyes closed tightly as he fought a battle inside himself that they could only guess at from what little they knew of the Unseelie’s past and his own words and deeds had made clear.

“You don’t want him to tell you that the sight of you makes his heart to race. You want _your_ heart to race when he walks past.” Magnus leaned close, whispering into one ivory ear. “You don’t want me to tell you of how my magic rises at your wicked grin. You want _your_ skin to prickle when I’m close enough you can feel my breath.” He lightly let out a hint of blue-tinged magic to ghost over Stiles’s cheek.

Alec didn’t know how Stiles was still standing with his eyes closed against Magnus’s verbal assault though he could tell that the Unseelie was trembling a bit. Arousal, nerves, fear. Without being in Stiles’s head Alec couldn’t really say _why_. Only that he was clearly affected by Magnus’s words.

Not that Alec could blame him.

If it were him in his position, he didn’t know that he would’ve been able to keep his knees from going weak or turning and kissing the life out of Magnus.

Reaching out and wrapping his callused archer’s hand around the back of Stiles’s neck in the same moment that Magnus held his hips from behind, smirking as Stiles’s eyes popped open in surprise, Alec leaned in and stole that breath that Magnus had been right – Stiles was _desperate_ to lose – pressing their lips together in a demanding kiss as Magnus whispered hotly in Stiles’s ear, plastering himself up against Stiles’s back: _so we won’t give you _words.

…


	17. Chapter 17

** Hunter’s Bane **

**Chapter Seventeen: Multiverse Weirdness**

On thing Stiles would never doubt, even for a moment, after watching Magnus and Alec fall in love in dimension after dimension was the depths of their passion.

No matter the world, no matter the circumstances that they met under, the pair of them together were a wildfire one moment away from raging out of control.

Theirs was a love for the ages, one so strong and fierce that it could rewrite the stars.

In fact, in at least one dimension – each, they’d done exactly that to save the other’s life, both Alec and Magnus willing to move heaven, hell, and earth if that was what it took for their love to thrive.

He’d…just never expected to have even a fraction of that passion directed _at him_.

They weren’t rolling him.

If anything from what he could feel via their bond, they were being extremely careful _not_ to use the link between them to influence him and roll his mind and emotions in their favor.

But show him someone even _mildly_ attracted to men who had Alec Lightwood pressing up against their front and _devouring_ them with his kiss while Magnus plastered himself against their back and whispered wicked delights into their ear between nibbles on their ear lobe and neck who could remain unmoved and Stiles would show you someone who’s been dead and buried a week.

Pulling away from that _insistent_ mouth and Alec’s burning eyes, Stiles spun – a move that startled both of them given how little room he should’ve had to maneuver but: _Unseelie_ – and returned the favor.

Reaching out, Stiles pulled Magnus into him and bent down, almost as worked up by Magnus’s words as he was by Alec’s…_everything_, taking that wicked mouth with his own and engaging the other warlock in a battle of wills as old as time. Their mouths pressed and nipped and threatened pain in one moment and then soothed and caressed the next. Alec moved in turn, wrapping those long archer’s arms of his around each of their waists and busying that pretty mouth with pressing nearly-bruising kisses to their necks, jaws, collarbones, whatever he could reach as his lovers seemed to attempt to sort out some kind of dominance issue if he was reading the bond right.

A warlock thing, he thought, that had nothing to do with sex and everything to do with the relationship they were trying to convince Stiles to give a fighting chance.

Finally, around the moment Alec was giving serious consideration to seeing just _how much_ pressure it would take to make an Unseelie bruise – also known as sucking and biting a hickey into that long, elegant ivory neck, maybe right over one of Stiles’s golden runes – his…_partners_, now he guessed, came up for air.

Soft, panting breaths came from between two pairs of parted lips, golden glowing irises locked on gold cat-eyes, both warlocks baring their Marks.

Stiles instinctively curled his lip, flashing a hint of longer-than-normal canine that had nothing to do with warlocks or Unseelie or shadowhunters and _everything_ to do with playing host to a nogitsune for months who used his skill with shapeshifting making the alteration permanent thanks to Raiden being an asshole like that.

With a smirk and a slight roll of his eyes, Magnus tilted his head a bit to the side.

Son of Asmodeus or not, he knew when he was outgunned and while to an outsider it might seem like an animalistic signal but guarding the neck was also a very human and demonic instinct as well while baring it to another could be a sign of trust, submission, or respect.

There was a reason that warlocks hardly ever had long-term affairs among their own kind and the power dynamics was _definitely_ one of them, few able to pack in their pride and arrogance enough to submit to the clear-cut roles that their demonic halves demanded even if they were partners and equals in every other way.

At least it answered one question for them both as as their mouths had been battling for control, so had their magics.

To no surprise after what Magnus had seen Stiles do but a bit of chagrin on his part, the son of Lucifer despite his significantly younger age was the stronger warlock of the two of them.

Leaning up and turning his head, Magnus exchanged a heated kiss with Alec then dropped back and lifted one hand to gently turn their archer’s face towards Stiles who repeated the caress.

“No more making decisions for us, especially _about_ us.” Magnus warned the younger warlock. “Difficult as that might be for you, we’re in this together Salil. You need to trust us to make our own choices or we really are doomed as a triad.”

“Okay,” Stiles sighed, shoulders slumping a bit and feeling more than a little _raw_. He hadn’t rested, not truly, for days and it was beginning to show – especially in his ability to make rational decisions. “I can work with that.” Bracing himself – and with visible reluctance – he stepped away from them, letting go of both Magnus and Alec from where he’d reached out and twined his hands in the bottom of their shirts – even if he’d had to pull Magnus’s from his pants to manage it. “And as much as I would like to continue your idea of _discussion,”_ he grinned wickedly as the delicious – and extremely _convincing_ – pair. “Time waits for no one, not even us. We need to get to the Institute and start working on the Valentine problem if we want to have time for you two to prove me wrong.”

“It will be my _absolute_ pleasure to do so and continue doing so as long as you let us.” Magnus lavished the words with salacious intent, eyes flashing a moment before he blinked and his glamor was back in place.

Alec reached out and gently ran his hand through Stiles’s hair, cupping the back of his head a moment then pulling away, a wordless agreement with Magnus’s words.

A snap of Magnus’s fingers had himself and Alec dressed in “Triumvirate” clothes: an elegant black suit with matching belt on their trousers, each matte black buckle in a different symbol: Alec the flame symbol of the Lightwoods and his own of a slit-pupil cat’s eye. His own love of luxury had their footwear Louboutin, dress shoes for him and plain – or as plain as they got anyway – boots for Alec. Magnus’s shirt and pocket square were both rich red striped with gold, golden cufflinks each set with four oval stones: two imperial golden topazes and two green tourmaline with flecks of brown flashing at his wrists, and his vest a rich black to match his suit with a trinity knot pattern worked in interwoven red and gold. Alec’s shirt and accessories were a rich emerald green striped with thin threads of graphite grey complete with titanium cufflinks – like Magnus’s set with four stones each: two imperial golden topaz and two tiger’s eye.

True to form Stiles eyed their suits with a smirk and a head-shake before deciding to be contrary.

A flick of his wrist swapped out his comfortable “at home” pajama bottoms and slippers for ink-black leather pants – complete with a holster set up for his daggers and stele and, to Alec’s shock, the carved adamas handles to seraph blades – though he took a page out of Magnus’s work and fashioned the buckle of his weapons harness in matte-black and made it in the shape of three sets of wings surrounding fourteen stars: thirteen smaller stars around a larger central one.

Thanks to Stiles’s explanation the night before, his partners would’ve been willing to bet significant amounts of money or chores that that wasn’t his personal sigil but a symbol of his birthright as the son of Lucifer – called the Morning Star – and like his youngest son possessor of a seraphim’s iconic six wings.

His boots were also a nod to Magnus’s stylistic choices, a spiked pair of Louboutin boots that he actually owned as a joint gift from Laura, Cora, and Darius the last holiday season.

But he didn’t put on a glamor over his bared – and runed, and scarred in places – upper body, and allowed his Darklight pendant to swing free and unhidden on its adamas chain, his Morningstar ring set firmly on his right hand, and his own personal take on Magnus’s cufflink declaration was a pair of eyebrow piercings that appeared out of thin air of small golden hoops each set with a small briolette: one the same tourmaline as Magnus’s “Alec” cufflink decoration and the other a tiger eye for Magnus.

“You’re going to give the Clave a heart attack.” Was all Alec had to say about the seraph blades, piercings, and lack of glamor, Stiles and Magnus sharing smug looks at that.

“I’m jealous of that opal.” Magnus had approximately _zero_ shame as he eyed up both that impressive chest and the jewelry that rested on it. “And for once I’m not trying to make dirty joke. That is a beautiful stone.”

“The founder of the Darklight line supposedly found it in a crater nearby where Raziel came to earth to create the Nephilim.” Stiles shrugged, rather doubting the story – even if a black opal of such pure color was strange to find in Europe during the dark ages to say the least, most coming from Australia. “I’m actually waiting – eagerly – for the moment the family back in Idris decided to try and make me give it to them.”

Magnus shared in Stiles’s wicked glee even if it made their shadowhunter frown in disapproval.

It wasn’t like they had a leg to stand on: they’d given it to Kallisto and she’d given it to her son. That she’d run away or that her son was a hybrid didn’t make that chain of possession any less valid. Though it would be entertaining to see them try, Stiles was right about that.

“Do you want us to call you Stiles or Salil at the Institute?” Alec – sweet creature that he was – asked even as he checked to make sure that Magnus had put all of his belongings in their usual hiding places: stele, weapons, etc.

“Salil is a shadowhunter and an Unseelie prince.” He answered – but not – all at the same time. “Stiles is a name most associate with a warlock. I suppose the answer to that question depends entirely on what role you want me to play in the Valentine situation.”

“Why don’t we set a blanket Stiles outside of our home,” Magnus suggested, deftly navigating around what could be a sensitive subject for even the most grounded of warlocks. “And Salil in private? Your brothers don’t appear to be offended when someone calls you by your nickname, though they also were rather insistent on using Salil.”

“Names are important to Unseelie, though not for the same reasons as for the Seelie.” Stiles sighed, already bracing himself for what waited for them at the Institute – and for what was sure to be another round of bickering with and between his brothers when they popped back up. Stubborn assholes, all of them. There was a reason that they rarely gathered all together in one place outside the Court where their roles are very rigidly defined by their titles. And a lot of it had to do with personal histories stretching out older than the _earth_. “They’ll never call me anything but Salil since our father accepted that as my name. All of the Unseelie but father chose new names when they Fell, shedding their angelic names as they were no longer part of the host and didn’t feel it was appropriate for Fallen – however it came about – to use the names of angels who were still known to both mortals and immortals for certain feats or traits.”

“Names are a big deal, check.” Magnus blinked. That was actually _really_ good to know with his tendency to make nicknames for people around him. He didn’t want to end up smote because the Crown Prince didn’t like being called something other than his chosen name. “So, shall we?”

“Portal or that fluttering thing?” Alec asked, glancing between his warlocks.

_His warlocks_.

He didn’t know if that would ever get old but he was certainly enjoying it, even if only in the confines of his own mind.

“That fluttering thing,” Stiles laughed for the first time in what felt like years at Alec’s description of the instantaneous travel abilities of Unseelie – and angels. “Is a method of controlling movement via displacement through space and time. Metaphysical transdimensional flying. Sorta.”

“Well that was wonderfully unclear.” Magnus pursed his lips though he thought where Stiles was going with that description. Though he had a feeling that information would be absolutely useless to anyone but an Unseelie. Or an angel maybe. “Let’s do it.”

“Alright,” Stiles lightly rested his hands on both their shoulders. “This will be disorienting but it shouldn’t have any ill effects…”

…

One moment Alec was in the living room of Stiles’s loft and the next they were standing on the catwalk over the Ops Center in the Institute – and scaring the ever-living-crap out of Raj who was walking towards Alec’s office.

Disorienting was definitely one way to put it without the feeling of the surroundings _shifting_ that came with a good portal or the clingy-syrup feeling of bad portals.

Then two things hit him almost simultaneously that took his mind off of being in one place one moment and elsewhere the next with the literal blink of an eye.

One: there were no alarms sounding from having Stiles and/or Magnus in the Institute.

And two: he was pretty damn sure that what he was looking at he _couldn’t_ be looking at.

“Am I seeing things or…?” He trailed off on his question as he blinked and shook his head but the view remained the same: that _was_ his _parabatai_ leaning into and clearly flirting with the male next to him at the main holographic map table that they used to track city-wide demonic activity. That part wasn’t a shock though seeing Jace do it openly was a bit of a surprise.

It was _who_ the other male was – and that Jace was still flirting with him and that he was not only allowing it, based on both of their body languages – and that no one seemed to _realize_ who it was despite him having been there last night and made a pretty dramatic entrance and stay while he was at it.

Magnus was the one that summed up the issue: “I thought Draethan disliked shadowhunters?”

“He does.” Stiles chuckled, shaking his head as Draethan obviously heard them and shot him a cocky grin before turning back to Jace, leaning into the blond. “As an institution due to institutionalized bigotry and their historical crimes against other living beings. One on one he can find them anywhere from _moderately tolerable_ as he terms my mom posthumously to, well,” he waved a hand at the flirting pair. “That. Nephilim are one of the few species out there that Unseelie can enjoy carnally without worrying about breaking them physically or by overloading them with grace. And eternity can be boring.”

The others accepted that with varying degrees of ease, Magnus seeming considering and Alec a bit intrigued about the “breaking” issue, one that he’d likely run into himself in a physical manner if he’d had mundane lovers in the past.

Which according to downworld gossip: he has, though he previous to Magnus and Stiles had showed a preference for werewolf or shifter lovers, staying well away for the most part from beings with active magic or other forms of mind control in their repertoire like the vampires’ _Encanto_.

Wise, given his placement in the Clave and status as the Head of the Institute – acting, or not.

“Still doesn’t explain, Jace.” Alec commented as they easily strode down the catwalk and metal stairs towards the Ops center where Izzy and Clary were also hovering along with Jace – and eyeing Draethan with more than a little interest themselves. “Since _normally_,” he raised his voice just enough to be heard by his _parabatai_ as they came into range. “His preference doesn’t lay in partners that could squish him like a bug with a thought.”

“I would _never_,” Draethan said with a grin that definitely belied that statement. “He’s too pretty to squish.” That grin turned even _more_ wicked. “_Spank_ maybe.”

Jace just gave both Dre and Alec a confused look, though he nodded in greeting to his _parabatai’s_…husbands? Consorts? Partners? As they came over, Clary and Izzy drawing near as well.

“What are you talking about?”

“What are _you_ talking about?” Alec shot back in exasperation, waving one hand at the Unseelie Prince leaning back with a cocky smile against the map table, his wings somehow passing through the table with that same intangible trick that he’d seen Stiles do during the Accords Summit. “Hello?” Then figuring on a guess that it was something to do with Draethan and not Jace, he sent a beseeching glance at Stiles.

“It’s not a glamor or spells like I use.” Stiles explained with far too much amusement at Draethan’s little trick. “It’s more charm. All of us have it. Works best on mundanes but everyone is susceptible to it to a point. I make a point of not using mine as it’s particularly strong but Draethan’s has always been more suited to allowing him to blend in and gain information he wants and/or needs.”

“Ah,” Magnus clicked his tongue. “Like a perception filter. They’re not seeing him as he is because his charm convinces their minds to ignore things that stand out. Like his wings.”

“Exactly,” Stiles nodded. “To explain: Jace the guy you’ve been chatting up probably on a thought that he’s a shadowhunter sent to help is my older brother Draethan, Fourth Prince of the Unseelie, Shield of the Fae.” He lashed out with one of his primary wings and whapped his big brother on the back of his head, Draethan instantly dropping the overpowered charm – forcing pretty much all the Nephilim in sight of him to blink then gasp, squeak, or stiffen in surprise. “Or as I like to call him: _That Overprotective Asshole_.”

“You were bleeding out the first time we met, brother.” Draethan straightened up with a sigh, pouting a bit at Salil spoiling his fun, then leaned down and whispered in the cute blond’s ear who’d gone ghost-white at the realization he’d been flirting with a being reputedly older than _time_. “Don’t worry cutie, I never use my charm to cause attraction. That’s all on you, darling.”

“Down boys.” Izzy chuckled, as Jace sent the Prince a heated look that definitely said they’d be talking about that little stunt before said-prince would be getting in his pants. “We have work to do.”

“That we do.” Magnus clapped his hands together. “I would _very_ much appreciate it if we could hunt down Valentine before our wedding. I _hate_ party crashers.”

“I think I know where to start.” Stiles admitted, as he’d been considering the issue ever since Clary had needed rescuing. “Alec, what did you do with that necklace Fairchild gave Clary?” He asked, looking over at his partner. “I think it might be a clue or key to finding her, but I need Magnus’s opinion.” He smiled ruefully. “And since Draethan seems to have been appointed my babysitter, him too. One of you,” he looked between his brother who’d been put on the standard black-on-black wear of a shadowhunter to better blend in. “Should be able to tell me if it is what I think it is.”

“And what’s that?” Clary asked after she’d worked her way through that convoluted bit of thought.

Stiles just arched a brow at her and shook his head.

“I’d rather not lead the experts on this one.” He told her. “Have some patience. Even Valentine Morganstern can’t stand against the might of the Unseelie. We’ll find him. This just might make it easier if he’s keeping Jocelyn with him or even has her in the first place.”

“He does,” Jace was able to confirm as Alec went off to the Institute Vault to retrieve the necklace. “Hodge confirmed it under interrogation last night. She’d under some kind of coma-inducing potion or spell.”

“Which is why he’s hunting warlocks in New York in particular.” Magnus sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. “Not merely because we’re some of the largest threats he can actually _get _to with the Seelie Realm so well guarded and the Unseelie, well,” he cast a knowing look at Draethan. “Being notoriously uninterested in mortal affairs.”

Draethan and Stiles shrugged in near-perfect unison.

It wasn’t like he was _wrong_.

If it weren’t for Stiles, the Unseelie would still be happily ignoring the mortal realm in this dimension.

“Did Starkweather give any description of Fairchild’s state other than it appeared to be a coma?” Stiles asked.

“Ephemeral green cloud.” Jace repeated after a look at his tablet that had the information loaded up. “Which is a new form of magical weirdness for me.”

“Maybe,” Stiles murmured, frowning. That struck a familiar note though he wasn’t certain _why_. “Maybe not.”

“Do you know what spell she’s under?” Clary jumped on that, eager as always for any hint of _anything_ that would help her mother.

“I know, as does any warlock over a century worthy their marks,” Stiles told her with a patience mustered from literal generations of being the favored babysitter of both the Stilinski and Hale clans. Though at times with Clary – for whatever reason – it was a particular challenge not to snap. “Quite literally thousands of spells. That it sounds familiar merely means that I _might_ have read a description of it once or seen it in a spell book or been told of it, and so on.”

Magnus ran one hand down the center of Stiles’s back, between where the wing joints protruded from the silken flesh and sending a shiver running down his partner as well as an inadvertent spark of arousal.

_Well_, Magnus’s eyes glinted. _That was interesting_.

Before he could pounce on this new information about a sensitive spot on his most challenging of his two bondmates, Alec returned with a piece of purple crystal strung on a chain.

“Well, well, Jocelyn.” Magnus lifted his brows in surprise as he reached out and took the bauble from Alec when his shadowhunter offered it over. “Where on _earth_ did you get this, I wonder?” He held it up to the light and studied it carefully, humming softly under his breath. “Or rather, _who_ did you get it from?”

Study complete – on more levels than the mortals could be aware of though the way both Stiles and Draethan watched him made it clear that they knew what he was about – Magnus wrapped his free hand around the crystal and sent a thought at it.

The others – in this case being anyone _not_ capable of using active magic – jumped or startled in surprise as a three-dimensional image of, well, _them_ appeared in the air above where he held the crystal.

“It’s a portal shard.” Magnus explained as he released it and handed it over to Stiles who then passed it over to his brother, Draethan studying it with sharp eyes that suddenly gained that _weight of ages_ look that came and went with all the Unseelie almost as if they hid their normal _gravitas_ with a glamor. “One to a very specific portal in a very specific dimension that is incredibly rare because of the properties of the portal having reacted in a unique way to the circumstances of how reality is different in that dimension from others with active magic.” He explained slowly to the others, waiting for Draethan to finish examining it and hand it back to Stiles who notably didn’t release it again.

“What’s so special about it?” Izzy asked the pertinent question. “There’s, what, uncountable dimensions with active magic if I’m remembering my multiverse theory correctly?”

“More with than without.” Draethan confirmed with a nod. “Some with only the slightest of differences from the core universe or dimension others that have differed vastly.”

“This dimension,” Stiles held up the crystal by the chain, focusing on the _what this can do_ part of the situation than speculating over where Fairchild had gotten her hands on the shard – especially since he was willing to give fifty-fifty odds on whether it was Ragnor or her estranged husband being the answer. “Is one where in the late sixteen hundreds they figured out how to seal the dimension against portals and cast out the demons that were already there. There’s no in or out there to the demonic planes. As a result, the existing magic is all neutral or nature based.”

“Which also means almost no portals.” Magnus expanded on the information Stiles provided. “One in and one out – and that one _out_ has responded by being able to go _anywhere_ or to _anyone_ with a thought and with no consideration for existing warding.”

“So…” Alec put the pieces together into a workable plan. “If we can find the portal in then we can take the other portal out to Valentine.”

“There’s just one problem with that.” Draethan pointed out drily with a _look_ at his little brother who responded by looking up conspicuously to avoid his gaze. “There are static points in dimensions. The same people tend to exist though not always. If someone that enters the dimension has an active counterpart there they won’t just “travel” through the dimension they’ll be dropped into their counterpart’s body and run the risk of merging with them. Which means _none_ of you,” he ran his gaze over all of them. “Can go because all of you exist there.”

“How do you know that?” Jace frowned. “How could you _possibly_ be certain of something like that?”

“Because we spent all of last night and this morning before my biggest brother,” who is a cheating cheater who _cheats_, “went to get Alec and Magnus to talk me out of doing anything irrevocable, using an Unseelie seeing pool to see if the Triumvirate has been attempted in any other dimensions.”

Which wasn’t the full truth but no one needed to air out his personal damage in the middle of the Institute, thank you very much, though it also wasn’t a lie.

“I’m assuming this demon-free dimension was one of the ones you looked at?” Alec asked, before anyone could _poke_ – Jace, Izzy, Clary – at a still _extremely_ sensitive subject.

Stiles’s grimace was answer enough.

“What’s with the face?” Izzy laughed at the expression on the normally stoic – or sassy – hybrid. “Are you married to _Jace_ or something?” She teased, sticking out her tongue at her brother and acting like it was the worst possible thing she could imagine.

“Worse,” Draethan smirked at his brother. “In about half of the dimensions where my baby brother exists, he’s mated to Derek Hale – or married if neither he or Hale are supernatural. The one we’re talking about is one of them.”

“Which is _gross_.” Stiles groused, folding his arms over his chest. “I changed his _diapers_. There is _so much wrong_ with my best friend being my mate. I’m scarred for life.”

“How often are you immortal?” Magnus couldn’t help but ask.

“Not very.” Stiles sighed, shaking his head. “Most of the time I’m either fully mundane – if usually a badass with a brain that doesn’t quit – or a magic user. I’m a Spark in the dimension in question, training to be the Hale emissary to Derek’s Alpha. There’s no shadowhunters, warlocks are still immortal but their powers are mostly dormant, the only vampires are from before the purge and werewolves have died out.” He shrugged. “Honestly, there’s massively worse off dimensions to travel to, I just don’t _want_ to because of the whole mated-to-my-bestie issue.” He wrinkled his nose. “I’ve seen enough of Derek’s naked ass when he went through his naked-baby phase, I don’t want to see it as an adult who fucks him.”

“I’m sure Raphael appreciates your reticence.” Magnus told him far too seriously to be actually serious. “Though I’m missing the part where anyone is going let alone we made the decision that it’d be you.”

Stiles and Draethan exchanged a look.

“Because this version of my brother is so vastly different than that of the other dimension.” Draethan laid it out for them. “He won’t be tempted by the peaceful nature of it to stay like the shadowhunters might, and as a spark there he’d have magic to call on – if different magic than he’s used to. His mortal body there will also _want_ to repel his soul as it carries a weight of age that that form isn’t used to housing. He _is_ your best option and if there is trouble he knows how to get the attention of myself or any of my brothers to come to his assistance though in planes where demonic influence has been purged as this, the Unseelie prefer not to travel there for risk of our presence creating renewed interest in the demonic planes towards a peaceful realm.”

“Say you do go.” Alec went from _maybe_ to _okay _let’s plan this in an instant. “There’s no way to predict that when you come back out in our dimension that you’ll be able to contact us with a location for the raid on Valentine.”

“You say that like I really _need_ backup when there’s not collateral damage around me.” Stiles smiled viciously. “But I take your point: Draethan will just have to stay here with you and wait for my signal.”

Draethan narrowed his eyes at his little brother, not liking that _look_ in his eyes.

The one that said he was planning something and he was _not_ going to like the outcome.

That his brother’s mates shared a _look_ as well did nothing to alleviate his concerns.

On the contrary: now he wanted nothing more than to lock Salil up in a padded room where he couldn’t put himself in dangerous situations.

Which would only last about ten seconds before his brother blasted his way out but still.

The point stands.

Salil was gearing up for _something_ and if they weren’t ready for it, it might just implode and take Salil with it.


	18. Chapter 18

** Hunter’s Bane **

**Chapter Eighteen: Mirror Mirror**

“You’ll need to be ready to move in a moment’s notice.” Stiles briefed the teams Alec had gathered in the Ops Center of the Institute – noting that more than one of the shadowhunters were shooting suspicious, dark, or concerned looks at their new teammates. Alec and Magnus knew the NYC downworld better than Stiles did, he’d done too good of a job laying low since the Uprising to be very well connected to the city in particular rather than his global influence. He’d spoken up when it came to putting those he knew on teams: Darius, Derek, the insanity of trying to split up his brothers. Other than that, he’d left them to it. “Shadowhunters that means activating your runes. Vampires will be fine – even if I arrive through the portal during daylight I’ll wait for sundown. Time also can move differently in different dimensions: it might be an instant for you or days.”

“We’re on standby until Stiles returns.” Alec ordered, Magnus standing on his right and Stiles on his left as they faced the force they’d mustered between them and their connections to raid the unknown location of Valentine’s headquarters. “But as Stiles said: be ready to move in a moment and be prepared for anything. Stiles will _try_ and inform us of any issues,” he warned. “But his main goal will be bringing down the wards to let us through. He might not have time or be aware of threats outside of his direct area of attack.”

“Have I mentioned lately how much I don’t like this plan?” Magnus grumbled under his breath, hands resting on the rail of the catwalk over the Ops Center as the teams started talking amongst themselves or splitting up to gather into little cliques. “Because I don’t. Unseelie hybrid or not, no one should be walking into Valentine’s base alone. You could walk right into a full meeting of his goons – and those sorts of numbers depending on how vigorously he’s been recruiting might give even you problems if you’re worrying about hitting an innocent in the backlash.”

Stiles snorting shooting a _knowing_ look at Draethan who just grinned back at him as Gwrtheryn stepped up next to Stiles.

His youngest-older brother was looking far too happy with himself for having lost the argument over who was taking Stiles to the portal in the Wander Woods – a bit of no-man’s-land that was used to get to all sorts of places between realms, including both the Seelie and Unseelie Courts.

The Seelie liked to think that they were the only ones who knew the Woods well enough to easily navigate them or that they alone knew the location of the portal, but the Unseelie knew better.

It was just easier most of the time to let them have their little delusions rather than spoil things for them.

Though if how close Meliorn was standing – and whispering – to a laughing Isabelle Lightwood was any sign, he at least wasn’t displeased over the division of labor that left him, the sole representative of the Seelie who’d come at the call to arms, paired up with Isabelle and Clary as Alec would be with his _parabatai_ and Magnus.

“I’ll be fine, Magnus.” Stiles shot a smirk at his worrier of a bondmate. “I managed to avoid _your_ detection for four years, I think I can handle avoiding Valentine’s for a few minutes or even hours that it takes for it to be safe to call for backup.”

And with that, Gwrtheryn grabbed hold of his brother’s arm and whisked them away – fluttering and all – to the Wander Woods.

…

Stiles wished he could say that it was the first time in his life he’d been woken up from a sound sleep by someone choke-slamming him into the nearest flat surface but sadly: that would be a bald-faced lie.

It hadn’t happened in awhile though, pretty much since Derek had gotten his wolfish temper under control in his late teens, and he could say he hadn’t missed it.

That said: jumping dimensions was _fucking weird_ and it took him a minute to remember that that was what was going on.

He also wasn’t surprised at all to blink his eyes open and find himself staring up into eyes glowing a furious red or elongated canine fangs bared and just waiting to rip into him.

“You’re _not him_.” Derek hissed, enraged and his wolf howling for blood – and their mate who didn’t _smell like their mate_ from one moment to the next. He’d only dealt with this sort of thing once before.

And those memories – of a time before they were officially mates and Stiles was drowning under the weight of possession by a chaos demon – were ones he’d both like to forget entirely but also never let himself forget how deeply he’d failed a boy he was already head over heels in love with and being an ass about it.

“You’re right, I’m not.” Stiles managed to gasp out despite the enraged wolf shifter whose claws were only _not_ ripping out his throat at the moment because even near out of his mind with rage and worry Derek would _always_ be careful with Stiles’s body as his mate. “But if you relax, just for a minute, I’ll explain who I am and we can get your Stiles back, yeah?”

Derek blinked a moment in confusion at that, that response being not _at all_ what he’d expected.

Scowling, he retracted his claws and loosened his grip enough that _whoever_ had taken over his mate’s body or swapped it or whatever the fuck was going on could speak without worrying about suffocation.

Though he stayed in the same position, straddling Stiles’s hips, his feet and lower legs easily controlling Stiles’s lower body, while the rest of him _loomed _over his mate-that-wasn’t.

“Talk.”

“I’m _a_ Stiles but I’m not _your_ Stiles.” He explained as quickly and succinctly as possible. “I’m from a different dimension and I hopped over here to find a portal that I need to use to find a location in my dimension. That’s it. I find what I need – which shouldn’t take much time at all – hop into the portal and my soul and consciousness will separate from _this_ Stiles’s body and you’ll have your mate back. That’s it. He’ll be a little confused about why he’s standing in a strange place next to a glowing purple vortex but other than that he’ll have no ill effects because I’m not possessing him: technically I _am_ him just from a different dimension and born under different circumstances.”

Stiles shut up at a warning squeeze from Derek, more than familiar with his best-friend’s “processing” face, teeth almost clicking together at the abrupt motion.

Derek arched an unimpressed brow. “Alternate dimensions?” He scoffed. “You _really_ expect me to believe that?”

“Your older brother’s name was Darius del Rey.” Stiles offered up proof, even as Derek’s expression went through a rapid-fire flicker from shattered to stoic. “When he was sixteen he officially decided to take up your father’s surname instead of the Hale name when he decided he’d rather be a druid than accept the Bite. He was the only one of your siblings born human instead of wolf. Your mom wasn’t happy about the decision, but your dad and Uncle Peter talked her around. Despite what everyone thinks it was never Laura who you were closest to because of your close ages but Darius and to an extent Peter. They _got_ you like your noisy – and nosy – sisters never could. You want me to go on?” Stiles asked, lifting his brows and cocking his head as much to one side as he could with a wolf-paw-collar. “I’m an immortal. I literally have known your family ever since they settled in Beacon Hills. I’ve got plenty of background dirt that no one has ever heard because of, well,” he shrugged not wanting to _completely_ rub salt into the open wound of the Hale Fire.

That _that_ tended to be a static point in around a quarter of Derek’s realities sucked major ass, much like how Stiles was always doomed to lose his mothers young no matter their identity or species.

Fate was real.

No one ever said it was kind.

Taking his hand off Stiles’s neck like the touch would burn him, Derek sat back on his honches and eyed the figure that was-but-wasn’t his mate.

“I’m not letting you run around with my mate’s body all over New York.” He warned. Believe him or not – and he knew a lot of information that Derek had never told another living soul, including _his_ Stiles – a bit of cooperation on his part might show him if the not-Stiles was being truthful or lying his ass off. “What do you need to get out of him as soon as possible?”

Stiles lifted up, holding up the hand that was still holding – portal shard not obeying the general rules of shifting dimensions – the purple crystal necklace.

And a thought niggled at him while he was at it.

It wasn’t his business. This wasn’t even his _world_. And yet…

He was _such_ a sucker.

“A computer with internet and a map of the city.” He told the – _eww naked_ – grumpy version of his best friend, abruptly cutting his eyes away from Derek in all of his nudist-wolf glory. _Shifters_. Then he peeked down under the covers and winced. “And some clothes.”

“Yep, you’re not my Stiles.” Derek chuckled, stepping into a pair of jeans and shrugging into a plain t-shirt. “He’s never missed a chance to make a joke in his life.”

Stiles shrugged even as he caught the clothes Derek had collected from around the smallish sized bedroom.

“You’re not my mate where I come from.” He admitted, slipping into the boxers provided under the covers and then climbing out of the bed to finish dressing. “Friend: yes. Mate or any form of lover: no. Pardon me for trying to be respectful of boundaries.”

Derek just cocked his head to the side and eyed him up in that adorable puppy way that he’d had since he was a toddler.

“You _really_ aren’t anything like him.” He commented absently. “There’s hints: a bit in the scent, the smarts, but mannerisms, speech patterns, even the way you _move_,” Derek eyed him as he stomped into Stiles’s lone pair of boots rather than high-tops. “It’s eerie.”

Though – thank fucking Christ – it wasn’t eerie in that disjointed way that Stiles had moved when he’d been possessed and the nogitsune was done pretending to be Stiles at all.

That was a flashback Derek _definitely_ didn’t need.

“I’m a Nephilim-Unseelie hybrid who’s over two hundred years old.” Stiles smirked as Derek’s faced morphed into one of the most hilarious gobsmacked expressions he’d ever seen on his best-friend’s face in any dimension. “If I had much in common with a mortal, Spark version of me, I’d be worried about his mental state.”

“Fair.” Derek decided after a moment, then ushered the strange not-Stiles out of the bedroom. “Stiles’s laptop is on his desk.” He pointed out the corner of the living area that was very “Stiles” from the pinboards with information splattered all over them to the dozen books opened and marked strewn over the work surface. “I’ll see if I can find a map.”

“Thanks, Der.” Stiles told him absently, already cracking other-Stiles’s password with a question towards the sleeping presence in the back of his mind.

“_So_ fucking weird.” Derek muttered.

…

“A psychic?” Derek’s derision over their first stop was plain to see and hear. “_Really_?”

Stiles rolled his eyes, thumb running over and over the purple portal shard, and pushed forward his best friend – who still very _much_ was his best friend in this dimension even with the metric ton of emotional damage that’d been done to him by this world – falling into step behind him.

Derek hadn’t been shy about keeping Stiles in his sight at all times and Stiles couldn’t really blame him.

If someone was running around wearing _his_ mate like a costume, Stiles would be watching them like a stalker as well, no matter how good their explanation was.

“Only in his day job.” Stiles murmured low enough for Derek’s wolf-powered hearing to pick up but too quiet for Magnus to tag with his powers as dormant as they were with his connection to Edom so diminished. “He’s actually a warlock.”

“Warlock?” Derek blinked in surprise and gave the stereotypical psychic’s parlor a closer look. The warlock was definitely playing for the schtick audience but it wasn’t overdone. There were hints here than there: actually well-made tarot cards, good quality crystals, potted plants that were common potion ingredients, etc. But they all blended in so well with the rest of the décor that Derek – or anyone else who wasn’t looking for it – would’ve overlooked it. “Huh. I thought they went extinct in the 1700s or something.”

“Not quite.” A crisp male voice belonging to a man of Asian descent wearing a plain brown cardigan over a green-cream-brown striped button down rebutted. He scowled suspiciously at both of his visitors. “Though we rather prefer that others believe we’re no longer inhabiting this world. For our own safety if nothing else,” he stared perplexed at the slighter one of the pair that – if he straightened up – would probably be taller than his bulkier companion. “What is _wrong_ with you?” He asked. “I want to run far away and snuggle all at the same time. And that is most definitely _not_ normal.”

“Calm down Magnus,” Stiles smiled and held up a cautioning hand. “We’re not here to hunt you. The repulsion is because the person who this,” he dragged a hand down his temporary body. “Belongs to is his mate,” he jerked his head towards Derek who was studying a crystal sun catcher. “The desire to snuggle is because in my dimension you’re one of my bondmates.”

At that Derek’s head snapped around with a slight growl which had Stiles rolling his eyes and batting a hand at him, not having the proper amount of give-a-fuck to deal with a territorial wolf that day anymore than he already had done.

Magnus blinked, putting that together into a cohesive picture – even if it was one that was difficult to believe to say the least.

“I’m not actually _here_,” he waved a hand in an expansive gesture that was made to encompass the dimension as a whole and not just the shop. “For you or this but…” he shrugged, smiling crookedly. “I’m Unseelie. We like to meddle every now and again.”

At _Unseelie_, Magnus’s eyes grew wide in shock and he held his ground only through sheer force of will when he’d rather put as many miles as possible between himself and one of the Winter Court.

It said a lot about the information and lore that was lost when this dimension was blocked off that the mention of Unseelie made no effect on Derek at all.

“A-and,” Magnus swallowed harshly. He knew what the legends said about Unseelie and demons. He couldn’t imagine that it would be any kinder between Unseelie and demon spawn. “You’re meddling w-with me?”

“Call it my romantic side getting the better of me.” Stiles shook his head, still a little surprised at himself. Maybe it was his mother’s unrelenting belief in love – that loving Victor Morganstern, her _parabatai_, hadn’t been wrong or wicked as the Clave had deemed it, that loving her husband and children was better than any rush from slaying demons – rearing its head. “But I’m here to give you a little _push_.” He passed over the portal shard, Magnus taking it with visible reluctance and sucking in a sharp breath at the sheer _power_ it contained and he felt rush through his veins. A power he hadn’t felt since he was little more than a child. “Towards your destiny. I have faith that you’ll find him on your own. The two of you, well.” Stiles shook his head. “You may be with me in my world but you’re with each other regardless if that makes sense. His name is Alec Lightwood. I don’t know where you’ll find him here, I don’t even know where he lives. But if you want your true love that you’ve spent all your life searching for: that’s who it’ll be if you’re brave enough to fight for it.”

…

“That was an amazing gesture you made back there.” Derek commented as they left the shop – and a dazed Magnus – behind.

“I wasn’t talking out my ass.” Stiles frowned slightly as he punched in the address to the Institute in Derek’s GPS, the location of the portal from the scry he did earlier using the portal shard he gave to Magnus. It wasn’t like he needed it anymore. And the less people meddled with this dimension the better. “They’re meant. Find each other in every dimension and every world. But if Magnus decides to listen then I might’ve sped thing up a little, maybe a year or two tops.”

“Still.” Derek was firm on this point. “You had nothing to gain by setting them up or giving that warlock a way to unlock more than the most basic of his powers. It was a decent, kind thing to do.”

Stiles’s smile was bitter and one that Derek had once been _far_ too familiar with.

“They refuse to give up on me.” He said, quietly, far after Derek thought that he was going to get the last word for once. “Here at least, I can try and make sure they don’t give up on each other.”

…

“Well,” Stiles stared at the portal, glancing back at Derek. It’d been ludicrously easy with his powers to make it down into the basement of the Institute where the portal was concealed. “It’s been interesting, Derek.”

“Same.” Derek crossed his arms over his chest and arched a brow. “Can I have my mate back now?”

With a final smirk, Stiles shot him a little mocking salute then stuck his hand into the glowing portal.

Before Derek’s eyes his mate’s body seemed to go through a full-body shiver and then collapsed as he rushed forward and tugged Stiles away from the portal.

“Sourwolf?” Stiles muttered up at his mate in confusion when he saw the glowing-portal-of-nope behind him. “Where the- what the-?”

Derek just chuckled and pressed a kiss to the top of that messy head of hair.

“You’re not going to _believe_ this one, Stiles…”

…

In another dimension entirely, Stiles popped out of a portal into what looked like a rundown manor house and hid himself immediately under heavy spell work as he spotted Jocelyn resting on a massive, frilly king-sized bed.

“Gotcha.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For more information about my stories (fanfic and original) find me on Facebook at: https://www.facebook.com/sif.shadowheart
> 
> Or follow me on Twitter: https://twitter.com/AbramsSif


	19. Chapter 19

** Hunter’s Bane **

**Chapter Nineteen: Kith and Kin**

Stiles double-checked that everything he’d had going _into_ the portal to the other dimension rejoined his physical body when he exited it, finding everything exactly where it should be except the portal shard as he sent his powers spiraling out from where he stood beside the bed holding Jocelyn Fairchild in her glowing green cocoon.

He didn’t recognize the manor around him, but when his power made it through the wards surrounding the house and then the outer wards around the property, he _instantly_ recognized the ones that he hadn’t expected to find as the wards encompassing Idris and hiding the Nephilim territory from mundane eyes.

Shaking his head he scoffed.

Because of _fucking course_ Valentine Morganstern was able to set up shop right under the ignorant noses of the goddamned _Clave_.

A glance outside from one of the many large windows in Fairchild’s room showed that it was late night in Idris, which wasn’t a surprise. It had been just after dusk when they’d gathered at the Institute and depending on the time differential between dimensions he knew that at the least he’d been in the other dimension for several hours. That left them with perhaps a few hours at most until dawn and not a whole hell of a lot of time if they wanted to move with the attack while the vampires could help.

Casting a _look_ at Fairchild, Stiles settled down into a hidden portion of the room not easily seen from the rest – especially the door and door-side portion of the bed – and lowered himself cross-legged onto the dusty carpeted floor.

Hands resting on his knees, Stiles just _breathed_ for a moment, tuning himself into the natural energies of the land surrounding him as he’d learned to do as a young child and practiced for hundreds of years.

It wasn’t a natural state for either a warlock or an Unseelie. Not in the slightest. Their powers were entirely different – though still grounded in a basis of using _energy_ to effect change – than that of a druid or other magic user who drew from the natural world.

Which also meant that if a person – say Valentine – was used to warding against warlocks or demonic energy or influences, they tended to overlook druids or the like.

Not that he could really blame them for that.

Other than the natural balance and protecting their own or those they’re sworn to, druids didn’t give much of a fuck for anyone else and would never, even with the state of the new accords, willingly involve themselves in anything taking place in Idris.

That warlocks _could_ tap into natural energies if necessary was an _extremely_ well-kept secret among their own and never revealed to outsiders, even Stiles’s stepfather hadn’t been aware of _why_ Ragnor had chosen to hide him on the Nemeton and Stiles had certainly never confided in anyone regarding it.

He’d never one to shy away from using _every_ tool in his arsenal however, and as he fed a slow trickle of power into the wards and then _twisted_ them, not bringing them under his control – which Valentine might notice – but reversing one of their key functions and adding a loophole for himself and his brothers to exploit.

Then, at last, he sent a message to his brothers which amounted to _here I am_, _anyone can come in, no one can come out_.

…

“Got him.” Draethan announced to the room, his other brothers moving in unison with him to form the linked-chains of bodies – hands on wrists or shoulders to create the connection – each of them responsible for bringing three or four teams to Salil’s location. “The wards will let us in but until Salil brings them down fully no one but an Unseelie will be able to leave via magic.”

“What about running?” Alec asked the pertinent question as he linked hands with Magnus and tried not to flinch when Gwrtheryn placed his hands on his and Magnus’s shoulders, Jace holding onto Alec’s arm, Izzy onto Jace, and so on. “Will they be able to do physically leave the wards?”

Gwrtheryn was the one who answered, cocking his head to the side a bit in that motion all of the Unseelie shared that was a bit bird-like as he parsed through the information his brother sent them.

“Yes,” he finally said at last. “We’ll land outside the Manor that Valentine is keeping the Fairchild woman within with the information Salil gave us.”

“It’s Idris.” Ailill snarled, slipping into Enochian. _“Incompetent cretins. If not for Ithuriel…”_

“Yes, yes.” Draethan rolled his eyes than cast a look over their attach force. “We know. Two teams will remain outside to control any attempts at running from Valentine or his men.”

Alec quickly selected the two teams, one led by Raj and the other by Underhill, then nodded his readiness to the Unseelie Crown Prince.

And then one moment was in New York and the next standing outside a Manor in Idris which wasn’t any less disorienting the second time than it was the first – a sentiment the rest of the non-Unseelie seemed to share if the hisses, growls, and curses from the rest were any sign.

Raj and Underhill ordered their teams to split off, one to handle the front and the other the back of the manor, while Jace stared up at the building in shock.

“Alec…” He stuttered in confusion. “T-this is Wayland Manor.”

…

Work done and message sent, Stiles _moved_.

One moment sitting in a hidden corner, the next he was beside Jocelyn taking a warded pendant from one of his personal pocket dimension caches and putting it around her neck then with a wave of his hands sweeping over her body and a pulse of sheer power he sent her away – removing at least one hostage from Valentine’s immediate reach – to a place where she should be safe until she could be retrieved.

Another moment saw him standing in a dim corridor as he heard Valentine shouting orders and his minions scurrying about.

His brothers and bondmates certainly hadn’t wasted time following his directions.

He sensed the ward stone of the manor beyond a heavily runed door that if he weren’t able to _feel_ the ward stone for the property beyond it he never would have been able to see the door at all, his eyes wanting to slide right over it as if it wasn’t there at all.

But it was.

And no nephilim’s wards would ever be strong enough to deter an Unseelie.

Lashing out with his _stele_, he broke down the runes then an unlocking spell had him inside the heavy iron door. If he wasn’t mistaken, from his spell he thought it might be filled with salt and lined with silver. Short of Unseelie or angels, there wasn’t much around that would’ve been able to stand to open it or pass through the threshold of the door.

Too bad for Valentine that Stiles had been spiking those sorts of preparations and rendering them useless since the day he was born.

That said: even _he_ who loved nothing so much as exploiting loopholes and catching others unprepared wasn’t ready for what he found beyond that banded iron door.

_“Fucking hell,”_ he breathed out, eyes wide as he slammed the door shut behind him with finality, throwing up as many locking spells as he could think of. In the next moment he was kneeling at the very edge of a circle of runes that held him back and kept him from crossing and staring in grief-striken rage at what – _who_ – that rune circle held prisoner.

…

_I need you with me._ The message ringing through their minds with fervent panic did nothing to sooth the worries of Salil’s older brothers who shared worried glances. _Now_.

“Salil calls for us.” Gwrtheryn told his brother’s bondmates who merely nodded, the pair working in perfect unison in battle between Alexander’s bow and Magnus’s magic with Jace leading the charge with his sword. “We must go.”

“Then go,” Alec told him even as he moved back to back to back with his _parabatai_ and Magnus. They’d yet to engage Valentine but the furious howl of Luke Garroway had made it clear _someone_ had come across the insane shadowhunter. “We’ve got this.”

A nod from Stiles’s brothers and then the fluttering that they all were getting used to heralded their leave taking.

“What do you think he found?” Jace wondered even as he parried a strike from a Circle member in time for Magnus to knock him back with what was likely a lethal blow from his magic. He hadn’t been certain about fighting with Magnus. Warlocks tended to be solitary fighters with few exceptions. And in this case he didn’t think Stiles counted since other than with his brothers there was no record of Stiles ever fighting _with_ someone since the warlock hybrid got on the Clave’s radar.

Alec and Magnus shared a grim look.

“Nothing good.” Alec summed up what was on both their minds.

…

_“By all the powers,”_ Ailill breathed out in shock slipping back into Enochian at the sight of Salil cradling a the form of a broken angel in his arms and wings.

There were the remnants of wicked restraints around the tiny room that held only the angel and a small table with various runes and sigils engraved on it that held a large ovoid stone that pulsed with power. Shattered hell-forged steel. Burned-out runes etched into the floor. Massive iron nails that appeared to have been ripped right out of the floor.

Whatever method the foul mind of Valentine Morganstern could conceive of to bind the normally uncontainable power of an angel, even a younger one like the broken figure cradled in their brother’s embrace.

As he should be.

Ithuriel was one of _theirs_.

The youngest son of Lucifer and Michael, the angel of sacrifice who’d been a scholar and guardian in the Host rather than a warrior like his brothers who followed their father and general in pursuit of Samael.

And as one, those warrior-brothers felt an unquenching _wrath_ waken in their breasts at the sight of their youngest brothers – one broken, one far too strong – as Salil attempted to comfort who he didn’t even know as his own kith and kin.

_“Ithuriel_,” Gwrtheryn stepped forward, the others falling in behind him and taking care not to step on either Salil’s massive wings or Ithuriel’s diminished ones. _“Brother. Be at peace. Nothing shall harm you now.”_

But rather than bring comfort, Gwrtheryn’s words merely brought to light another crime against their own: as Ithuriel opened eyelids to show his missing glorious golden eyes that would given even Salil’s a challenge for pure brilliance and a garbled sound from his throat that proved he could not speak.

“Shh,” Salil soothed him, a careful hand brushing through his wispy hair that was all that remained from his once-glorious golden mane as Gwrtheryn came down on his knees beside Ithuriel’s head, their other brothers crowding near and resting their hands on him. “Don’t try and speak, brother. We are here now. We will take care of you. Protect you. There is nothing more to fear.”

Raising his eyes – that behind their misting of tears _burned_ with the same fire that writhed inside his elder brothers – he asked a wordless question of Ailill.

The healer of them lifted his hands from where they’d been glowing against Ithuriel’s chest.

Ithuriel, who’d always been closest to Ailill of all their brothers, and whose absence Ailill had mourned the most.

Slowly, he shook his head. “This is beyond my skill to heal.” Ailill admitted. He was a battle-field healer, not a skilled physic. And the level of damage Ithuriel had taken at Morganstern’s hands…it was no small thing to repair, especially as diminished in grace and cut off from the Host as Ithuriel had been for however long Morganstern had kept him captive. “We must either take him to the Winter Court or…” He trailed off, swallowing harshly and not even wanting to _think_ of what would be required to free his brother of his earthly chains.

“Then we’ll ask him.” Stiles decided before his brothers could press the subject one way or the other. “Brother,” he directed his words to the broken figure in his arms. “Squeeze your left hand for yes, and your right for no. Do you wish to be taken for healing in the Winter Court?”

It was a weak squeeze, but it was a squeeze and gave Stiles hope where it pressed against his feathers, Ithuriel having buried his hands in his wings almost as soon as Stiles had broken the binds on the angel.

“Do you wish to be freed to return immediately to the Host?”

Another squeeze, stronger, but on the right.

Looking up he nodded at Ailill who gathered the smaller, weakened form of their brother into his arms and disappeared from one moment to the next.

With burning eyes, the others rose as one, blades glowing with menacing light in the dim recesses of the manor’s basement and Stiles eyeing up the ward stone before lashing out with a blast of power at one particular sigil.

A binding sigil.

Over his _dead fucking body_ would Valentine keep his brother’s grace bound for a single second longer.

“Let us go.” Stiles hissed, eyes flashing and his wings lifting up and mantling in wordless threat. “I believe I need to have a little _chat_ with Morganstern.”

Unfortunately for the revenge of Stiles – or indeed, any of the Unseelie – by the time they returned to the fight Valentine had made good on his escape.

Though by the time they were finished tearing about the manor and grounds looking for him in a fury, there was little left of his hideout and less of his forces that had been housed there and who weren’t fast enough to escape with him.

Rage banked but hardly extinguished, they returned to the Institute.

Much had been done but there was still much do accomplish before they’d seen the last of Valentine Morganstern and his vast atrocities.


	20. Chapter 20

** Hunter’s Bane **

**Chapter Twenty: The Huntsman**

Stiles turned to his brothers, seeing in them the same rage crackling in flash-lines like lightning across their eyes and dancing over their skin.

_“Go_,” he spoke aloud for the benefit of the others but in Enochian to keep their secrets to themselves. _“Help Ailill with our brother. I will call the Hunt.”_

Aetheryn and Draethan shared a long look then turned and nodded in unison, disappearing in the next moment.

It was Gwrtheryn who paused.

Not out of fear for his brother, no not that, nor even the cost of what path his words had given life.

But out of concern for how the others, Salil’s bondmates who he’d only just formed a tenuous agreement with, would react to it.

It wasn’t a thing often _done_.

Less still were those who could survive it and come out the other side even moderately intact.

The power of the Hunt was ancient, as old as the Fall, and those who Called it down ran the very _real_ risk of being absorbed into it, merely another cog in the wheel of power that drives it. Of those who Called the Hunt and whose Hunts were righteous, they would join it until the Hunt was done. Whether that was as a single hunter or as the Huntsman depended not on strength of arm or magic but soul. Whether they survived the Hunt and were able to _leave_ it with the dawn…well. That was a matter of will and resolve.

What it came down to in Gwrtheryn’s moment of thought wasn’t whether he thought his brother’s path was worthy or his soul strong or his will iron, but one of temptation.

Ever had his brother struggled against darker urges, against the bloodlust and viciousness that marked the sons of Lucifer and made them into warriors without compare.

Taking that darker side and giving it free reign and a place where it was welcomed, rejoiced in even…there was a risk in that he wasn’t certain Salil even knew existed when he decided upon his path.

“_As you will,_” Gwrtheryn nodded at last. He shot a meaningful look at his brother’s bondmates. _“But as you ride as the Huntsman,” _because he didn’t doubt for a moment that his brother had the strength for it. _“Remember _why_ you ride and what you have left behind you and that awaits your return. The Primordial force of the Hunt will wish to keep one such as you: you can power them for eons with your soul and magic and heritage. No matter how much you glory in it, you cannot lose yourself to it.” _He arched a dark brow at his brother’s surprised expression. _“Or I will summon Father _myself_ to come and rip you out of it and ground you to the Courts for the next century_.”

“_I hear you, brother_.” Stiles nodded, a half-sheepish grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. _“The others should ground me and pull me back. But if the power of the Hunt threatens to overcome the bond, there are other things keeping me in this plane and I never forget my promises.”_

_“See that you do not.”_ With that Gwrtheryn clasped his hand to his brother’s shoulder and then left to return to his home in the Winter Court and oversee the healing of his youngest angelic brother.

…

“What was that about?” Alec asked as Stiles turned back to the small audience watching the drama play out between the Unseelie.

Thankfully, it truly was a _small_ audience.

Most of the shadowhunters had been dismissed to write up their reports and mission debriefs if they were uninjured or sent to the infirmary otherwise, while the bulk of the vampires and werewolves had also been dismissed by their associated leaders once the prisoners – not that there were many, when Unseelie lost it apparently they _lost it_ – had been muscled into the holding cells in the basement of the New York Institute.

All that really remained were those who were directly connected to either Stiles or his bondmates.

Which given what he was about to tell them was rather beneficial even if he expected Clary Fray to pounce him as soon as the girl who’d been in a clear post-first-mission funk as one of the older shadowhunters led her to the infirmary woke up from her daze and had her injuries seen to.

Jocelyn was tucked away safe and sound in Stiles’s bedroom at his loft until he could call for her, the best place he could think of to stash her since the only ones with easy access through his wards were either Derek or his brothers – since being Unseelie _and_ direct blood relations to him even Stiles’s wards had issues keeping them out.

“Valentine just got caught provoking _far_ more trouble than even he likely realized when he committed the original atrocity.” Stiles paid careful attention to his wording. If his brothers weren’t _thrilled_ with his plan, his bondmates and the others would be even less so, especially since outside of the actual Unseelie or the Hunt itself, no one truly knew how it was formed or what its purpose was, though the Seelie had a better idea than most others. “There was an angel bound in the basement of the Manor. His lifeforce was bound to the wards and building itself as a form of containment along with other measures taken by Valentine. I fixed it.” Stiles clenched his jaw. “But the wounds and drain from his long imprisonment have left him weak. Ailill took him to the Courts for healing and I sent my brothers along to help in whichever way they can with the angel while I handle Valentine personally.”

Call him simple if you want, but Jace didn’t quite _get_ what was so different about what Valentine had done to the angel than he’d done to everyone else who’d been his victims, even if the very idea of it filled him with just as much instinctual revulsion as was clear to see on the faces of the others, even non-nephilim like Raphael, Derek, and Darius or former-nephilim like Luke.

“How is that worse than anything else he’s done?” Jace asked, frowning, then explained at a couple of the _looks_ he caught for it wordlessly calling him an idiot. “No, I get it: imprisoning an angel is beyond evil, I just,” he shrugged. “We already knew that about Valentine, didn’t we? Why is this any different than everything else he’s done?”

“It’s not about the angel.” Derek said slowly, eyes locked on Stiles’s face. The face of his best-friend who he knew better than anyone else in the world, maybe even better than Stiles’s brothers given how little time they were actually free to spend with him when the world wasn’t actively trying to end. “Not really. It’s about who the angel _is_, isn’t it?”

Darius’s eyes shot wide with a little gasp as he put the pieces together as well, Stiles ignoring all of them as he had a staring-war with his warlock partner – who if the furious conversation going on between them knew at least a bit of Enochian and wasn’t _happy_ to say the least over whatever he’d gleaned from Stiles’s conversation with his older brother.

“Oh shit, _he didn’t_.” Darius shared a wide-eyed look with his little brother, both of their heads swinging around to stare at – and categorize – Stiles per the Hale Family Guide to Gauging Imminent Damage.

“Magic crackling across skin.”

“Eyes glowing.”

“Wings crackling with magic.”

“Tone calm and even.”

“Hands twitching.”

“Huston, we have a family member.” Darius announced with dramatic flourish, slapping one hand to hide his eyes with a groan. “_Fuck_. And he was captive for _years_ from the way it sounds. _Fuck me sideways_.”

Jace grinned a little and almost said it but was stopped by Izzy coming to a halt at his side, Clary already shooting over to Stiles and Magnus like a laser-locked redheaded missile, and jabbing him in the side.

“What’s going on?” Izzy asked, glancing around the various states of worry and/or confusion surrounding her brother and his two – _two_ – boyfriends. Bondmates. Fiancés. Whatever.

“There was an angel kept trapped and captive in Wayland Manor.” Jace explained as he watched Clary heading for Stiles like a man spectating a train jumping off the rails. “Hale and del Rey apparently think he was – is – related to Stiles and his brothers.” He glanced over at the pair and their hovering vampire sidekick. “Right?”

“Lucifer and Michael had a dozen sons or so Stiles has always said.” Derek shrugged as Raphael wrapped a possessive arm around his shoulders at the _appreciative_ glance the Lightwood girl was giving his mate’s biceps in his t-shirt. “Only four of them Fell with Lucifer since they were in Lucifer’s Legions. Two more Stiles has never said anything about and the other six still hold various positions in the Host. Apparently. So this angel could be either one of the unspoken-of angels or one of the members of the Host that Valentine figured out a way to summon and trap.”

“You can do that?” Clary asked, distracted from attempting – and being ignored which is only making her temper worse – to interrupt whatever argument Stiles and Magnus were having in a language she couldn’t recognize. “Summon and trap an angel?”

Alec sighed, crossing his arms and resigned to waiting out his bondmates and their _discussion_. All he was getting from the bond was worry – and moderate panic – from Magnus over whatever-it-was Stiles was planning and rage mixed with resolve from Stiles. Not exactly a great mixture for a happy triad but he expected that trying to merge three strong personalities into a functioning unit that there was going to be issues.

He and Jace had had an easier time than most from being _parabatai _but learning to use that link and then to integrate another into their team like Izzy wasn’t nearly as easy or flawless as it appeared now from the outside.

They’d been partners for more than ten years and _parabatai_ for almost as long.

If it looked seamless to an outsider, it was because they’d put in the work for _years_ to make it look that way.

He had faith that as long as Stiles and Magus were willing to put in the work that they would get there one day as well but it wasn’t going to be today and with as elusive as Valentine was reputed to be tomorrow – or anytime soon – wasn’t looking good either.

“_Anything_,” Alec explained taking the role of teacher for the near-mundane girl for the moment. “Or anyone can be summoned and trapped – for a time. It’s just finding the right method and gathering enough power to manage it that usually keeps people from trying it on beings like Princes of Hell or angels.”

“Plus to moral implications of trapping a heavenly being,” Jace added.

“Yes,” Alec nodded, “that. Along with the _actual_ implications of a Nephilim being insane enough to use and abuse one of the creators of our race. There’s _that_ to unpack in Valentine’s bag of crazy as well.”

“He’s not just an angel.” Stiles said, slashing up one hand and holding it out imperiously, Magnus visibly fuming at running head-first into the unmovable wall that was his partner’s stubbornness though the feeling both of Magnus’s bondmates got said that he wasn’t retiring from the field, merely resting and marshaling his faculties for a new assault later. “He’s Ithuriel, youngest son of Lucifer and Michael, and the Angel of Sacrifice who helped Raziel create the Nephilim in this dimension.” His eyes – and wings, though only his mates could see through his glamor, or his brothers if they were present – flared. “Valentine kidnapped and tortured not only his own ultimate progenitor but _also_ one of my brothers. And there _will_ be a reckoning for that injury and insult he has paid our family.”

While the others were rocked by _that_ news, Clary drew his attention with a huff, less than concerned about heavenly matters when her mind was still very much occupied with earthly ones.

“Where’s my mother, Stiles?” She demanded, breaking the others from their thoughts – or panic – over the revelation of Ithuriel’s identity while some with the knowledge, like Alec, panicked inside over what sort of damage the Unseelie could do while they hunted down Valentine. Or what sort of collateral damage might occur as a result.

“Oh, that’s right, the Fairchild creature.” It wasn’t the kindest of descriptions but Stiles was more than done with anything or anyone even tangentially connected to Valentine Morganstern. Such as the woman who fell in love and _married_ and _bore children for_ the son of a bitch. “I’m going to have to fumigate my bedroom now,” he muttered scowling even as he moved over to an empty table in the Ops Center, slashing his hands over it and then pulsing them in mid-air, Jocelyn’s comatose body – green fog and all – slapped lightly onto it as he translocated her less-than-gently. “There,” he snapped at the ginger who’d trod on his _last damn nerve_ with her lack of care over the news that he’d _quite literally_ just rescued one of his brothers from years of captivity and torture.

But then: self-indulgent, self-involved, _artistic_ teenager raised in New York City: he also wasn’t surprised by Clary’s behavior as it was perfectly in character for her.

His hopes that her involvement with the Shadow World and training from the NYI would be a wake-up call were being rapidly dashed.

Oh well.

It was hardly the first time, and it wasn’t like he was invested in her anyway and if he had his way – and was reading Alec right – neither would anyone he gave even _half_ a fuck about for all that he sometimes enjoyed Lucian’s company.

“There,” he made a grasping motion with his right hand, summoning the pendant from around her neck that he’d used as a beacon to translocate Fairchild, then banished it as it would also need a cleansing before being used again, tainted as it was with Fairchild’s aura. Much like his bedroom would be. “One comatose Circle-member, as requested.”

As Clary and Luke clambered around their mother/lover, Magnus came up beside him with a slight frown as he studied the magical cocoon, already working on the problem of the spell.

“You’ll send the bill for her rescue to the Institute,” Alec said-slash-ordered Stiles, a discussion about _favors_ and _payment_ still fresh in his mind. With such a mixed audience from the Shadow World, he didn’t want anyone getting any _ideas_ about the Triumvirate performing services other than mediation and arbitration as outlined in the Accords _pro bono_. “Though,” he smirked, arching a brow at his bondmate. “I’m not sure what the going rate is for an Unseelie-Shadowhunter hybrid warlock’s services.”

“Enough to make even a High Warlock blush,” Magnus sent a knowing look at the younger warlock. “As with any specialist. Our Stiles’s skills in warding and protection magic are considerable, as is his abilities as a bounty hunter. The standard rate for a live capture of a wanted Circle member should suffice in this case, one would think, as I believe Jocelyn _does_ still have an active bounty on her head by the Clave.”

“She does.” Alec and Jace confirmed in unison, the latter crossing his arms over his chest then looked away as Clary sent him a betrayed glance as a reality she’d never even _begun_ to consider made itself known. Jace continued: “I looked when we confirmed that Jocelyn Fray was Jocelyn Fairchild and it’s almost as much as the bounty on Valentine.”

“Well, the latter won’t be an issue for much longer.” Stiles sighed, rubbing his hands over his face then looked down at the magic surrounding Fairchild and ignoring the attempts by anyone else to follow up on his provocative statement. “Second opinion, Magnus: does that magic seem familiar to you?”

“It does,” Magnus sighed, extending his arms and running a quick magical scan in addition to the passive ones he’d managed without being overt. “_Far_ too familiar. It seems my dear cabbage has been holding out on us.”

Stiles grumbled under his breath, already reaching for his _stele_ and conjuring a piece of paper and a pen and scratching out a fire message and sending it off.

“What?” Luke blinked. “You two know whose magic is keeping her like this?”

“I would imagine it was intended as a sort of safeguard.” Magnus explained, feeling more than a bit put out that Ragnor hadn’t deigned to warn anyone about the help he’d provided to Jocelyn. Though in hindsight he wasn’t surprised. As Stiles’s story provided an excellent example of, the grumpy bastard had a soft spot for women in dire straits. It was that thick chivalrous streak of his. “Much as taking Clarissa’s memories was. If Jocelyn can’t be interrogated, she can’t reveal information that she may or may not possess which in the case of Valentine could be anything from the existence of Clarissa to the location of the Mortal Cup.”

“So this warlock helped my mom do this to herself?” Clary summed up in half-understanding and half-confusion like much to do with the downworld.

“Basically.” Stiles shrugged. “Yes. And we won’t have an answer for what spell he used until he wakes up and answers my message so you might want to relocate her to the infirmary or a spare room or something.”

“Because you’re part of the Triumvirate thingy.” Clary nodded only to be shot down by the twin snorts from Magnus and Stiles.

“No.” Stiles smirked at her. “Because he’s my mentor.”

…

“You haven’t said anything.” Magnus could help but point out after Jocelyn had been moved and the others – particularly Raphael who needed rest with the dawn – left to their beds or whatever it was that occupied them with nothing but waiting and interrogating Circle members (for the shadowhunters) to be done.

“Neither have you.” Stiles shot back, lifting his brows as he folded his arms over his chest and leaned back against the catwalk rail above the Ops Center, a lookout spot that was quickly becoming his favorite in the Institute and not _just_ because he got to keep an eye on Alec being all _leaderly_ and in charge down in the mess of people below. Turning his head a bit, he shot a wicked grin at the put-upon expression Magnus wore. “You could warn them, see if they’ll team up and try and stuff me in a cell. But you haven’t. You haven’t for two reasons that I can tell: you know that nothing can stop me now that I’m resolved _and_ that you agree Valentine must be stopped. Even if you don’t like the method chosen: you agree with the premise. Besides,” Stiles turned back to watching the dance of Alec in command below. “I will warn them to stay inside until dawn. As will you. As will the other leaders. So long as none are foolish enough to disregard the threat of the Hunt, no innocents need be taken.”

“You really believe you can control them?” Magnus frowned. “How can you be so certain?’

“I’m a son of Lucifer.” Stiles said, tone granite. “A son of the Lightbringer, of the Morning Star, with a righteous mission. If _I_ can’t control them, no one can or ever could.”

“_He hunts those who hunts us_.” Magnus murmured, a thoughtful expression on his face as he glanced over at that beautiful face and unearthly eyes and wings from the corner of his eye.

A wickedly dark grin flashed in response, Stiles letting those elongated canines show.

_“Exactly_.” He chuckled darkly. “I’ve always _been_ the Huntsman. This is just the first time in my personal history that I’ll do so with the Hunt at my back.”

…

The fire message – with plentiful snark – came from Ragnor, Stiles popped to his loft to retrieve the _Book of the White_ that his mentor had gifted him just after the Uprising, and Magnus had Jocelyn awake in a series of events that felt rather anti-climatic for all the fuss and buildup that had preceded it.

As far as Stiles was concerned, whether the Clave interrogated Jocelyn or tossed her head over ass into the City of Bones wasn’t his problem.

Her husband was.

At least with the Fairchild woman awake, her daughter could be _someone else’s_ problem other than the Institute’s since from the feeling Stiles was getting from his bond with Alec said plainly that whatever the outcome, he was about _done_ with babysitting and wasting resources on Clary Fray since according to Jocelyn, the Mortal Cup was in a tarot card as they’d thought – it was simply that said card had yet to be found.

Huh.

All that work and expense and danger with zero payoff.

Imagine that.

…

An hour before dark, a message went out across the downworld and the Institutes alike:

_Stay inside: the Wild Hunt rides_.

With the dusk, a son of Lucifer called the Hunt and donned the guise of the Huntsman as was his birthright.

With the dawn, the body of Valentine Morganstern was laid on the steps of the New York Institute, an old-fashioned arrow of rowan wood and deer bone tip piercing his heart.

When asked, later, what they felt as Salil Darklight rode at the head of the Hunt, all either of his bondmates could say was: _exhilaration_.

Stiles was the Huntsman – the Huntsman was Stiles: riding the Hunt in search of righteous prey was bound into his bones, a thrill greater than any rollercoaster, a rush better than any fight.

If someone had thought to ask one of his brothers they would have discovered a disturbing truth: without the bond to his partners, the Hunt would have never stopped, chasing the night across the world and the sky, searching out the wicked and tearing apart their souls to fuel the Hunt.

Thankfully, for everyone in the mortal plane, Stiles _was_ grounded to his life and ties.

Elsewise…well.

The sons of Lucifer would have gained a third brother of which they did not speak, for one reason or another.


	21. Chapter 21

** Hunter’s Bane **

**Chapter Twenty-One: All the Legends are True**

The rising wave of power – _dark_ power – in the air was warning enough for those who could sense it or mundanes with even a modicum of self-preservation to remain indoors, even if Stiles hadn’t given an hour’s notice to the Shadow World leaders to keep their people inside that night.

He didn’t say _why_.

Only he, his brothers, and Magnus knew the details.

Not because he worried that word slipping out to Valentine would ruin his plan to call the Hunt but rather because if the Seelie Queen learned of what he planned, she _would_ try and stop him and that would start a war with the Unseelie that none of the Seelie who sided with their queen – which with how bound to their words and oaths Seelie were on a magical, integral level would be all of them – could survive.

Magnus stayed with Alec and his siblings in the Institute that night, making plans for the required wedding to satisfy the Shadow World and hold the Clave to their word as neither of them could sleep with Stiles gone and adrenaline ripping through their bond. Whatever it was that controlled the magic of the Wild Hunt, it put their Unseelie in a state where he couldn’t moderate his end of things. Which was a boon in that they knew he was alive. But also a rather startling development as of all of them Stiles was always the hardest to read under normal circumstances.

If they needed proof that the Hunt took him out of his normal self it was there in the bond.

Needless to say but with _that_ on the other end: The Huntsman of the Wild Hunt, their bond to him ensured they wouldn’t be sleeping even if they could have worked beyond their own racing thoughts and nerves at the idea of Stiles leading the Hunt once Magnus told Alec what was going on.

The power of the Hunt washed over the City and beyond, searching far and wide for the prey that their Huntsman had marked, and tearing through anyone or anything foolish enough to come between the Hunt and their target.

For once, whether on Stiles’s insistence or due to whatever Valentine had done to himself making him incompatible with being absorbed into the magic of the Hunt, they left a body behind.

Stiles delivered it himself: a single shot through the heart with an arrow from the bow his stepfather gifted him upon reaching manhood among their people, the corpse tossed from the black steed of the Hunt that he rode at the head of = racing between dusk and dawn – before he led the Hunt away. While in theory he could release them from the Institute steps…that seemed an unnecessary risk. He could feel them inside. Feel his bonds to them keeping him from integrating fully into the Hunt. Keeping him _human_ in that small shard of himself that wasn’t marked by magic or grace.

He wasn’t about to risk the dark magic of the Hunt deciding to take what it couldn’t seduce and snap his bonds to his bondmates by riding _through_ the Institute instead of vanishing to chase the night back into the realm of the Hunt now that their purpose had been fulfilled.

By the time he cleared his mind fully of the rush and bloodlust of the Hunt – of the feeling of wind through his wings and strength greater than even what _he_ possessed coursing through him, of the bone-deep _knowing_ that nothing could contain him or bar his way, of utter joyous _freedom_ – and returned to the Institute, landing with a bit of a wobble onto one knee a few feet from where the shadowhunters were hovering around Valentine’s corpse, Magnus must have given the all-clear that it was once more safe to roam free.

That dawn was peeking over the horizon likely helped reassure those who still looked on a warlock with suspicion, though as soon as he was noticed he was clamored by Alec and Magnus.

If he had to guess he’d say that the sudden tide of exhaustion crashing into their bond was probably as much of a giveaway as the sight of him crouching on the cobblestones outside the beautiful old church.

“Stiles!” Alec shouted, rushing to his side.

“We need to get him inside and resting.” Magnus diagnosed at a glance as between them they got the exhausted hybrid up on his feet, that the Hunt had drained him more than clear in that his glamors – all of them – were down, wings drooping and dragging the ground before Jace came to assist and with Magnus’s gratitude. The way Stiles tended to _loom_ without meaning to – partly because of his feathery appendages – in his case did not create a false sense of mass. While the wings weren’t as heavy as they should be, they were still quite the weight to bear on top of over six-feet of muscled, athletic male.

He had to weigh – without his magic making him lighter or compensating for the wings – _at least_ close to three hundred pounds.

“Sugar.” Alec added his two cents as he and Jace stabilized Stiles between them with help from Magnus’s magic to lift and manage his wings and guide the nearly-unconscious hybrid to Alec’s room. There weren’t any wounds to be seen – and with the glamors down, Stiles couldn’t hide them if he was wounded and just didn’t want to admit it – and it wasn’t the first time he’d seen someone pushed passed their physical threshold. It was just rookie – or stubborn assholes like Jace – shadowhunters not two-hundred-year-old Unseelie hybrids. “Lydia,” he caught the attention of the blonde as his sister was more than occupied with shooting out orders for gathering Valentine’s corpse and running both a DNA comparison to Clary – to try and prove identity beyond a shadow of a doubt if he knew his sister – and an autopsy. “Can you get whatever fruit juice the kitchen has and bring it to my rooms please?” He took another look at the hybrid who was just _barely_ shuffling along as Alec and Jace supported him. “And glucose gel from the infirmary.”

“Got it.” She darted off into the bowels of the Institute to recover what Alec had asked for. With her injuries from the Forsaken attack, she hadn’t been able to go on the assault on Wayland Manor and it was _good_ to be helpful in whatever capacity until she was recalled to Idris.

“Is this normal?” Alec couldn’t help but ask helplessly of his boyfriend as they poked and prodded and magically-directed Stiles to his personal rooms in the Institute. Something they’d have to address later, now that the issue made itself known if only to keep himself from panicking. He had his rooms here, Magnus had his loft and possibly other residences, Stiles was probably the same, and they hadn’t even _begun_ to discuss how they were going to handle living arrangements for all that he and Magnus had been distracting themselves along with Izzy and Lydia with wedding plans. “I’ve never seen him like this before, no matter how much magic he used.”

“Hard to say,” Magnus admitted, gnawing lightly on his bottom lip as he sent another questioning scan rippling over Stiles as they got him to sit – and his wings somewhat arranged neatly behind him – to start replenishing the lost calories he’d spent with such draining magic use. Though if he had to guess from the sheen of sweat that was being _quite distracting_ as it highlighted every ripple of Stiles’s impressive physique he would wager that the drain and cost of riding the Hunt was as much or more taken physically as it was magically. A snap of his fingers had all of Stiles’s impressive personal armory detaching itself from various pockets and holsters and piling up neatly on the padded chest Alec kept at the foot of his bed – likely for the same purpose – and another swapped the hybrid’s “mission” leathers and boots for soft socks and a pair of Batman pajama bottoms.

Yes, Magnus had noticed and recognized the emblem on Stiles’s slippers even if the iconography had gone rather massively over Alec’s curly head.

“There’s not exactly a lot of literature on someone like Stiles,” _or any_, “and other than acknowledging that Stiles intended to call the Hunt, the Crown Prince hadn’t said anything about it at all. Stiles snapped something along the lines of calling the Hunt being his birthright when we were debating the wisdom of such a measure, but he hadn’t been in a rush to explain himself regarding _that_ either.”

A brisk knock on the open door heralded Lydia’s successful trawl through the kitchens and infirmary, the Clave envoy passing over a couple of ampules of glucose gel then putting down a half-gallon jug of store-bought apple juice followed by a pair of large sports drinks that would help raise his blood sugar as well as replace lost electrolytes.

They might’ve cleaned him up before she got there – magic no doubt – but she knew sweat-slick from overexertion when she saw it and while it would probably be a struggle to get the liquids into him it would probably be the only thing that kept him off an IV once Isabelle caught sight of him.

That he’d shown up in such a state _after_ the feisty pathologist had gotten distracted with his _gift_ to the Institute was probably the only reason she wasn’t tapping a vein and putting him on an IV already.

“Thank you, Lydia.” Alec told her distractedly as he was already twisting off the sealed butterfly top of the glucose gel with the rapid dexterity that made him a near-incomparable archer.

The small gathering – Lydia, Jace, and of course Alec and Magnus – watched with bated breath as Alec coaxed Stiles to open his mouth and managed to squeeze the gel into the pocket of his cheek between gum and the interior of his cheek.

“How long has he been unresponsive?” She asked in a low-pitched murmur of Jace as the two of them kept out of the way but still in the room in case the trio needed something that Magnus couldn’t just conjure for whatever reason. Which at the moment was looking more like sheer worried distraction than anything.

Jace reached out behind them and softly closed the door when someone made a bit _too_ much of a study of walking by “casually.”

“Since he got back from what I can tell.” Jace told her, likewise pitching his voice soft enough not to distract the others but not in the hissing tones of a whisper which would carry in the acoustics of Alec’s room with its tall vaulted ceilings like many of the better rooms in the Institute. “From what Alec said earlier, he was completely fine when he left to call the Hunt. Whatever they did to him is what did this.” He scowled in worry. “But it’s not like one of his brothers is around to actually _ask_ what’s wrong with him.”

“He called the Hunt.” Magnus’s voice carried, proving that despite appearances he was very much paying attention to everything around him as he and Alec alternated between shots of the glucose gel with the apple juice. “And not only survived but returned to us mostly in one piece. That’s what’s wrong with him.”

Jace arched a disbelieving brow then dragged his eyes over the only barely – which was better than before but still not even close to good – responsive form of the most powerful person he’d met in his life barring the hybrid’s older brothers.

“If that’s one piece, I don’t want to know what _actual_ damage from the Hunt looks like.”

“No.” Stiles confirmed softly, brain starting to kick back on though feeling even more tired than before as the rush of the Hunt left him beyond drained but the administrations of his bondmates helped his body at least stabilize though his magic would need rest and TLC before it was recovered. “You don’t. What the Hunt does to those without the bonds or power to resist it is the origins of the stories of the Sluagh, the Fear Dorcha, the Ban Sidhe, black hounds and more all come from. They’re where fae being spirits of nightmare and darkness came from.” His eyes glowed – but dimmer than usual due to the drain on his resources – in the diffused light of the room. “Darkness, hunger, bloodlust. The darkest impulses of Seelie and Unseelie, mundane and Nephilim alike given shape and form and purpose. After all,” his smile was drawn and more like a grimace than anything. “_All the legends are true_. At least to some extent.” He shook his head and pushed away Alec’s offer of a sports drink, easily able to say from the empty juice and scattered glucose packets and sports drink that he’d had about all he could take. “I need to rest,” he told his worried bondmates softly, lifting himself fully onto the bed as Alec grumbled and moved out of the way, Lydia and Jace ducking out of the room to give them privacy.

With a bit of maneuvering – and some magical help via Magnus – they got Stiles settled onto his stomach and the nightstand moved out of the easy striking distance of his wings.

“I’ll stay with him,” Magnus said softly as Alec was cutting his gaze anxiously between the passed-out – which had taken less than a minute once they got him laid out – form of their bondmate. “You go be the Head of the Institute. If you need me I’m only a text away.”

“Okay.” Alec sighed, leaning over and pressing a soft kiss to Stiles’s bared cheek, getting a soft grumble for his effort, then trading an equally soft kiss with Magnus before leaving their Unseelie in their boyfriend’s care.

He didn’t want to.

At the moment it was probably the _last_ thing he wanted to do.

But as much as he hated it: duty called.

Valentine was dead and within less than seventy-two hours of the new Accords being signed by one of the members of the new Triumvirate.

The fallout promised to be spectacular.

Alec just didn’t know _where_, exactly, it was going to land or what sort of damage – collateral or otherwise – it would have.


End file.
